


oh mercy, i implore

by sleeponrooftops



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Q, Explicit Language, Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Q centric, Q has a name, Slow Burn, Tattooed Q, Violence, but really this is a story about Q, eventually James is a character, lots of them - Freeform, slowest burn ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 70,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7496859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q wonders, briefly, how James could possibly think this is an appropriate time to profess his undying love—or what<i>ever</i> the hell it is he’s attempting to do; though, frankly, the skeleton suit did make him blink a bit stupidly at his laptop—but then something explodes to his left, and Q heaves a long-suffering sigh and snaps at him for ruining everything good in the world.  James laughs and carries on wielding his Walther like it isn’t the 7500th replacement that Q has thrown at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. avant

**Author's Note:**

> Notes —
> 
> i. I always tell everyone that I have two fandoms that I always return to—Marvel and Panic! at the Disco. A weird combination, I know. I’m adding the Daniel Craig era of _James Bond_ to this list because good grief, I have read more fanfic for this ship than any of my others, and I’ve rewritten this fic like 18,000 times. So here. Enjoy this fucking novel.  
>   
>  ii. AHEM, discrepancies. I know Q drinks Earl Grey, but black tea is the bane of my existence (this is slowly becoming a lie), so excuse me while I abuse herbal teas and every hipster stereotype in the world, _bye_. Also, Q has family (yes, James meets them eventually, it’s delightful), which is really just me saying he has brothers, and I had fun with that, but I also named him (ugh, I hated every moment of that), although James never refers to him by it because no. Second also, this is heavily Q centric. It starts when he’s 17 and is mostly summary until we get to MI-6, but it’s there nonetheless. I’ve also put him at about 29 when he starts working with James. Third also, this is literally just a story about Q. There’s a 00q relationship in there eventually, but if you’ve come here for Bond smut, you might be disappointed. The first 10k is literally just Q. And really, it’s my headcanon Q, who is badass, has impeccable aim, can take care of himself (he’s a freaking MI-6 agent, he’s not fragile), definitely has tattoos, a slightly sketchy past (someday, I’ll write a recovery addict!Q fic, but not today), and is generally awesome.  
>   
>  iii. Quick moment of history. I started writing this right around when _Skyfall_ came out, and then I stopped a few weeks later, ended up watching _Cloud Atlas_ for the seventeenth time, fell in love with Ben Whishaw again (really, is anyone surprised at this point), loaded _Skyfall_ with the intent of watching his scenes, and watched the whole thing. Fast forward some time later, I came back to this, aggravated with what it was, and changed a lot of it. Then, now, quite some time has passed since _Spectre_ , and here I am, grumbling about. Also, this is broken into three parts—before, during, after (before James, the courting of Q, and _after_ ).

_This isn’t violence._

_This is just a war in my head._

Q has never known quiet.

 

He grows up with three brothers, all in varying degrees of loudness, and he wonders, eternally, how he was the only one who yearned for the darkness, when they would all sleep, and finally, there it was—silence.

 

By the time he’s six, it becomes quickly apparent that he won’t be taking after them, and while he adores his brothers, he begrudges having to attend their soccer matches.  They’re all broad-shouldered and look like their father, with unruly, light brown hair and brilliantly shaded hazel eyes.  Q decidedly gained _all_ of their mum’s looks, with darker hair and grey eyes that hint at green, a slender build and wrists that his brothers are always threatening—playfully, they remind him—to snap.

 

He’s eleven the first time one of them throws a wicked punch out of anger, and Q throws up a forearm in defense, which crashes against his face and results in a bloody nose that blossoms a bruise so ugly that Q still believes it’s the baseline for what comes next.  Three months later, his brothers start to take turns teaching him how to fight, and he grins, with a definite air of arrogance, when he passes his first field test for MI-6 in flying colors several years later.  His brothers still threaten, on occasion, to snap his wrists when they’re feeling particularly volatile, but now Q holds his ground every time there’s a brawl between them.

 

When he’s thirteen and tells his parents he wants to graduate early, however, his unruly, loud brothers are the ones to cheer him on.

 

And now, here he is, seventeen, applying for grad schools, but still _here_.  None of them can afford to move out, so they’re all still crammed into their one bedroom, bunk beds still intact, and Q just wants _out_.

 

He spends most of his time in the kitchen, learning how to cook with his mum, while his brothers take turns learning different trades from their father until, one summer, their car breaks down, and Q spends every free hour with his father learning how to fix it.

 

Ultimately, though, Q’s objective is to have a space of his own, and so he gets a job at a local coffee shop—Shae laughs uproariously at this, Desmond buys him an apron, and Connor is his first customer when he finally gets promoted to creating—and starts saving, diligently working his way through grad school until, one day, he finds it.

 

He’s up late at the library on campus, using the key one of his professors dotingly gave him for after-hours access, when he just—stumbles upon it, an intricate forum devoted to his undeclared and unprofessional major.  He’s found a community of hackers.

 

Q misses the sunrise, too busy typing furiously, learning, delivering nasty codes, and, somehow, making a friend.  She introduces herself as Duchess, and his mouth quirks as he types back a quick, on the spot, overconfident moniker—King.

 

 _Clever_ , she writes, _Bedtime, dear King.  Catch you on the flipside._ And she’s gone, just like that, but Q is confident he’ll find her again.

 

When he gets home, his mum is furious, smashing utensils into the drawer as he winces when the door creaks open.  “No note!” she yells, throwing a bowl into the sink.

 

“Car gone,” Shae mutters over his cereal and gets a smack upside the head for it.

 

“I was worried _sick_!” she exclaims, throwing a hand towel at Desmond when he starts to speak, “Where were you?”  
  


“At the library,” Q says, shrinking, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize what time it was.”

 

“Ever?  Not once?  There are clocks all over the building.”

 

“Not to mention the sun kind of, you know, _rose_ ,” Connor says, “That might have been an indication that it was getting late.”

 

Q levels him with a nasty glare, and Connor beams at him.  “Darling,” his mum says, sighing, “Please.  You need to call if you’re going to be out all night.”

 

“At the library, honestly,” Shae says, shaking his head, “What a disappointment.”

 

“That’s enough of you!” she shrieks, reaching for the towel.  All three of them duck, and she turns back to the sink to smile.  “Are you hungry, sweetheart?”

 

“Yes,” Q says sheepishly, setting his bag down and dropping into the only available seat.

 

His father dies three days after everyone forgets his eighteenth birthday.

 

Grad school comes and goes before Q is ready for it to be gone.  He’s barely nineteen when he gets accepted into a master’s program, and his brothers actually hoist him up onto their shoulders when he gets the letter.  They all go out for celebratory drinks, pointedly ignoring their waitress’s nervous stares when they slide drinks across the table to Q, and then, somehow, they end up at a tattoo parlor.

  
“This might be a bad idea,” Q says, watching Connor teeter dangerously toward falling.  He’s anything but a lightweight, though he can’t say the same for Connor or Shae.  Desmond, however, can drink him under the table easy.

 

“This is a splendid idea,” Shae almost shrieks, and that alone gets a headshake from the artist.

 

“I’ll do you two,” he says, pointing at Q first and then Desmond, “Not those drunk shits.”

 

“Fair,” Connor says before he dumps into a seat, “You should get a plug thingy.”

 

“A what?”

 

“An outlet!” Shae cries.

 

Even Desmond rolls his eyes.  “That’s a little predictable, don’t you think,” he says before he leads Q over to the counter.

 

They spend two hours—and more money than Q is willing to admit, particularly because it doesn’t come out of his pocket, but his brother’s—getting repeatedly stabbed until Q is being released.  Desmond went first, getting a small, but intricate Celtic design on his bicep, though he’s watching on with wide eyes when Q stands and turns, twisting to look over his shoulder.  It looks like the beginnings of a circuit board is creeping up his back, and something swells inside of him.

 

When they have a real party the week following, at home with their mum cooking, it feels a little closer to his childhood than Q is expecting, and he can’t help letting a little of his brother’s boisterous nature infect him.  He and Shae are really the only ones at home now, and Shae is at his girlfriend’s more often than not.

 

Desmond is twenty-five now, married, and expecting his first daughter; Connor is twenty-two and preparing for a backpacking trip around the world; and Shae is twenty and struggling to not despise university.  And, in the dead of night, Q is hacking into his first security system, dismantling a company for the sheer fun of it, and grinning widely when a message pops up on his screen.

 

_Shit, King, was that you?_

_Read it, and weep_ , he types back before he leans back against his chair and just keeps grinning.

 

The next morning, when he comes down for breakfast, and Desmond is there, his footsteps slow as he listens to him talk.  “I’m worried about him, mum,” he says, trying to keep his voice low, “The company that manages our security absolutely tanked last night, and it had his name all over it.”

 

“He wouldn’t do that,” his mum says, and Q swears softly, turning and running back up to his room.

 

If Desmond can decipher it was him that easily, then he needs to be gone.  He opens his laptop, throws a message Duchess’s way— _It was the fucking company that manages my brother’s security.  I have to go._ —before he’s stuffing things into a backpack and climbing out the window.

 

He’s gone for two weeks before he finally dares to call home.  “Is it you?” his mum says when she answers.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, “I was afraid.”

 

“Honey, come home.  Please.”

 

“Am I in trouble?”

 

“Did you do that?  Was that you that crashed that security company?  It was all over the news, and Desmond—I mean, we always knew you were interested in that kind of stuff, but we never thought—god, why would you do that?”

 

“Mum,” Q says brokenly.

 

“Come home.  Now.”

 

“Am I in trouble?” he echoes.

 

“ _Yes_.  Of course you are.”

 

She hangs up, and Q closes his eyes, pressing his temple against the glass of the phone booth.  It’s another week before he goes home, and, miraculously, all his mum does is crush him close, sobbing relief against his shoulder.

 

And then, he really fucks up.

 

Q’s on a high when he hacks into MI-6.  His advisor has just signed off on a second degree, his niece’s first birthday is the next day, and Duchess has asked if he’s ever thought about them meeting.

 

He tells her, _yes, oh my god, yes, all the time, can we?_ right before he sees the current challenge floating around the forum.  His fingers freeze over the keyboard.  No one has accepted it, and it’s the third time he’s seen this particular challenge.  No one has ever taken this bait, not after the last time—not after the last person disappeared.

 

 _Don’t do it, King_ , Duchess sends over, _Please.  Ignore it._

_I can do this.  I can totally fucking do this._

And he does.

 

Q’s in before they realize what’s happening, and it’s just— _beautiful_.  He’s never seen anything like it, layers and layers of code, firewalls so promising that he wants to start tweaking them, strengthening them, and then his screen goes black.  He’s prepared, though, and he starts typing furiously, whipping through programs and throwing everything he has at them until, finally, his screen flickers back to life.  MI-6 is gone, but there’s no trace left of him on their end, either, and Q grins.

 

It’s the first time he steps through the cracks successfully.

 

When he tells Duchess, she says she wants to wait to meet, and they don’t talk for a year.  In those silent twelve months, he tiptoes into the NSA, starts shifting things around, and bloody well gets _caught_.  He spends three days in hiding, skipping out in the dead of night and taking a train to somewhere far away.  When he arrives, he starts erasing all traces of himself from the NSA’s database, but they’ve managed to latch onto one thing— _King_.

 

Someone sees his work, and he’s on his way home when he gets an encrypted message that says, _I think your particular skill set could be useful for our purposes.  We’ll contact you soon._   The contact comes in the form of a manila envelope in the mail, delivered discreetly, and that’s the first time Q is hired as a hacker.

 

He starts inventing without really intending for it to go anywhere, and his brothers test out his prototypes whenever they come around.  They think it’s all some kind of game, and Q is feeling notably frustrated after a day of watching them toss his things about without much care, which he decides to blame for why he gets caught sneaking around in the CIA’s mainframe, of all places.

 

When Q’s mum answers the door the next morning, confusion contorting her features, Q considers running, though he knows it’ll be worse for her, and he lets himself be brought in.  He spends a week in jail, gets a slap on the wrist, a new job on his way out, and more ink on his back when his bank account mysteriously inflates after a successful hack.

 

Then, one day, _I’ve got a job for you.  Full time.  Real shit._ Q blinks at it, Duchess’s familiar handle, and he can’t stop smiling.

That’s how he ends up paying for his schooling, working behind the scenes, bulking up the security for top name companies and even carving out a small place in the world for himself, all the while grinning every time a manila envelope appears outside the front door.  Q lives this life, making coffee by day and hacking by night, taking apart kitchen appliances and sitting under an ink gun on the weekends, writing codes aimed to destroy in between.

 

Without warning, the messages from Duchess stop coming.

 

Q assumes she’s busy.  She’s always buggering off to have adventures, and so he doesn’t pay it any mind.  He’s in the hospital awaiting his new niece when he gets the news.

 

“Two girls, can you believe it?” his mum says, pacing back and forth down the hall.

 

“Of course he would,” Connor says, “Betcha we all have girls, just to make it up to you.”

 

“If only,” his mum says, and Q looks over at his brother, eyebrows shooting up.  When Connor nods, Q starts jostling him, and then Shae catches on, and, suddenly, Q is just another of the four, boisterous and causing a scene.  When their mum finally catches on—that, yes, Connor’s fiancé is pregnant—she starts crying immediately, and they all laugh at her.

 

Q’s phone vibrates, and he starts to ignore it when it keeps going, buzzing across the bench.  “Sorry,” he says, still beaming, “One second.  Hello?”

 

“Is this—is this King?”

 

Q blinks.  “Duchess?” he asks.

 

“No, this is her mother,” she says, “I, um—I found your conversations with her, and I thought—she always talked about you, and you seemed so close, and I just—oh god, I’m sorry,” and Q goes deaf.

 

 _Grace_ fell while hiking alone, shattered her ankle, and got lost trying to find her way back in the dark.  They found her body four weeks later.

 

That night, a hack challenge pops up on the forum, something miniscule, unworthy, and Q grabs it, completes it, and throws his laptop at the wall.  Shae is there in a heartbeat, curling around his brother and holding him close as Q breaks apart.

 

In the morning, he skips breakfast, instead trying to piece together his laptop.  When it’s finally teetering close to workable again, he pulls up an old code, throws himself into his favorite program, and hacks into MI-6.  He’s in and out in under two minutes, but not before he transfers a small fund to his banking account.

 

Q buys a new laptop and starts inventing.

 

He almost loses a rather nasty bit of code before he starts hacking carefully, silently.  Even still, the whispers continue, and he’s twenty-six when MI-6 catches up to him.  He’s spent the last three years since he finished up his master’s program accepting jobs that get darker with each envelope, several weeks in jail once, and even learning how to tattoo himself, though he much prefers letting someone else work on him.  He’s busy allowing himself a moment of self-pity while all of his brothers are busy being married off and living on their own, and he’s still _here_ , so he hacks in, intends to just wander around for a bit, and they destabilize his entire world.

 

A picture of Desmond’s three daughters pops up followed by a short, angry message, _Tonight.  The art gallery.  The ship._

He has no choice but to comply.

 

“Where are you going?” his mum asks when he makes for the door just after dusk.

 

“Out for a bit,” Q says, trying to shake off this feeling that he’s never going to see her again.

 

“Will you be back late?” she asks wearily.

 

Q swallows.  “I’ll try not to be,” he says before he comes over, leaning down to kiss her cheek, “I love you, mum.”

 

“I love you, too, dear.  Be good.”

 

The woman he meets, he later discovers, is head of MI-6.  She smiles fondly at his shaking hands when she sits down, and says, “What are we going to do with you?”

 

“I’d like a job,” Q says immediately, not looking at her, “I can help you.”

 

“Can you?”

 

Q nods quickly.  “Please.  I need to get out of here.”

 

“And what kind of job did you have in mind?” she asks.

 

Q looks over without meaning to, and blinks at her.  “Um,” he says, “Whatever there is.”

 

“Are you prepared to leave your family behind?”

 

“Not really,” Q admits.

 

“Good,” she says, “You start in the morning.  I’ll leave it up to you to find us.”  Q watches her stand up, his shoulders sagging in something akin to relief.  “And we’ll have to do away with the name,” she says, “Though not quite yet, but you do show promise.”

 

“For what?”

 

“All in good time, _King_ ,” she says, “Sleep well.”

 

“Thank you,” Q says as she walks away, and then he goes home.

 

The salary he receives at MI-6 almost, _almost_ , makes him regret stealing from them, but then he peers at his bank account after his first month, and he has to sit down.  “Mum,” he says, “Is it okay if I move out?”

 

“Job going that well?” she teases, coming around behind him.  “Good lord,” she gasps, “What could you possibly be doing to earn that?”

 

“Mum!”

 

“Not that you don’t, love, just—that’s quite a bit of money.”

 

“Right?” he says, looking up at her, “And I love what I do.”

 

“Good,” she says, squeezing his shoulders, “Hold onto it, then.”

 

He starts flat searching immediately, and then Shae is off on winter break, and he positively vibrates at the challenge.  Two weeks into December, as Q is tidying things up before he’s allowed a few days off around the holidays, he gets a call on his personal phone, and he answers it discreetly.  “Shae,” he says, “Is everything okay?”

 

“When are you out of work?” Shae asks, excitement lifting the volume of his voice.

 

“In an hour, probably.  Why?”

 

“Can I pick you up?”

 

Q sighs.  “No,” he says, and he knows what Shae’s expression looks like.  He’d decided to take the route of telling his family that he was working somewhere covert, and that they couldn’t know much more than that, and it’s bothered his brothers to no end.  “Meet me at mum’s?” he asks.

 

“Too far,” Shae says, “I’ll pick you up by the station?  Come on, kid, I’ve got something awesome to show you.”

 

Q sighs again, but relents.  When Shae pulls up to their destination, however, he’s glad that he did.  The flat is everything that Q has been looking for, and he mirrors Shae’s eager smile as they’re shown in.

 

The foyer is small, with two closets to the side, one for washing, and the small hallway opens into an open concept kitchen and living room, unfurnished but beautiful.  There’s only one bedroom, located next to the bathroom, and a balcony off the side, and Q signs the lease that afternoon.

 

It takes him longer to be promoted then he expects, but slowly, he begins to climb.  He starts off in a basic group, built with other like-minded individuals.  They work to strengthen MI-6’s overall systems, but when he starts to thrive with their security, he gets reassigned.  He starts working in a branch, gaining his own desk, which he proudly buys a succulent for, and shifting his work flow to combine his efforts with those in the branch.  He works here for almost two years when M comes in one day, and everyone stops typing.

 

“M?” their lead says uncertainly.

 

“King,” she says, spotting him, “With me, please.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, shutting down his laptop before he gets up, starting to walk toward her when she makes a soft noise.  “Ma’am?” he says.

 

“Take your plant,” she says, and Q blinks, confused, but does as he’s told, taking the succulent with him.

 

“Is everything okay?” he can’t resist asking as she leads them down a hall and toward the elevators.

 

“Lovely, actually,” she says, “It’s time for that new name.”

 

“Absolutely,” Q says eagerly, “The others refuse to call me King, though.  They think it’s pretentious.  Which, it is.”

 

“It is,” M says, “No, not a moniker of your own, but an old one, a recently retired one.”

 

“I don’t follow,” he admits when the elevator doors shush open, and Q steps out, starts to follow, and immediately stops.  “Ma’am,” he says, looking around quickly, “I don’t have clearance to this floor.”

 

“You have clearance to all levels now,” she says, “Come along.  Granted, that statement is only true if you accept.”

 

“Accept what?” he asks, hurrying to catch up.

 

M pushes open a set of glass doors, and the room beyond is what Q has dreamed of since they first hired him.  The movement of keys starts to slow when M enters, desks stationed on either side of a walkway down the center.  On a raised platform, three desks sit, varying devices sprawled neatly across them, several large monitors hanging behind them.

 

When she reaches the platform, she stops, turning, and Q waits.  “I was hoping you might accept the position of quartermaster.  Ah, don’t drop the plant.”

 

Q squeezes the pot instead.  “Quartermaster?” he repeats, “I thought—”

 

“The last one’s had quite enough of us, as he so kindly put it before he literally exploded.  As I said once before, you showed promise.”

 

Q blinks at her.  This is it.  This is why he hacked into MI-6 all those years ago, to arrive at this moment.  His thoughts drift briefly to Duchess, and he wishes, desperately, that he could tell her.

 

“And my name?” he asks.

 

She smiles softly, comes forward, and turns him, facing out to all the curious faces.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “Your new quartermaster.”

 

“Q,” the letter murmurs out amongst them, and then they’re back to work.

 

Q.

 

——

 

He starts working with 002 first.  He’s pleasant and easy to get along with, but it’s not quite what Q is looking for.  He helps him regardless, leads him flawlessly through mundane missions.  They don’t talk much beyond the necessary, and then 004 comes into his life.

 

M assigns him two more double ohs, though only 004 is currently active.  When he asks after the other, M makes an aborted noise and says, “Bloody ran off with Bond, the asshole.”

 

It’s the first time he hears of 007.

 

It’s almost as though, now that he’s heard his name, he keeps cropping up everywhere.  It becomes quickly apparent that this is largely due to 004 and 005’s annoyance with him.  It’s also then that Q starts finding his place among the double ohs a little more.

 

004 is stern and has no time for chatter, and Q appreciates this.  002 was always commenting on the weather and wondering after the moon’s cycle.  M called him charming, but Q just tried to tune him out.  004 is brisk, and Q delivers his aid in the same manner, creating an almost clinical atmosphere between them that he looks forward to.

 

His first mission with 005, they both almost end up dead.  005 is a little more reckless, prone to getting himself into sticky situations and not being able to get out, and, without a doubt, he always says, “Don’t tell Trevelyan, he’ll go straight to Bond, and they’ll both be sniggering behind my back.”

 

Once, M is in the room when this sentiment comes out, and she jumps onto the private comms, snapping, “Perhaps you’d better learn how handle yourself if you want to act like 007.  Debriefing will be extended, 005.”

 

It’s one of the few times M interrupts the steady flow of Q branch, and Q can’t help but smile whenever she steps through the doors.  One of the minions, Dante, lets him know that he’s never seen her aside from his first day and he’s starting to believe she’s checking up on them.

 

“Just making sure we’re doing our jobs properly,” Q says lightly, and Dante smiles, nodding.

 

“Yes, sir,” he says, ducking back behind his laptop.

 

He doesn’t mean to, but Q starts relying on Dante until one day, without warning, Dante sets a small box down on his desk, fighting to hide his smile when Q looks up from the switchboard he’s mangling.  “Yes?” he says.

 

“Open it,” Dante says, nudging the box closer.

 

Q sighs, but lays down his tools, wiping off his hands on his pants before he takes the box, opens it, and immediately says, “Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

 

Dante’s smile bursts out, this wide grin that he can’t contain, and he nods quickly.  “Yes, absolutely,” he says before he turns and strides over to his desk.  Q sets the white scrabble mug down, turning it so that the letter faces out.  A laugh sneaks out from somewhere amongst the minions, and then others start to notice it, and, before long, everyone is having a chuckle over it.

 

When they get Thai later that week, Q puts his feelers out and almost immediately starts retracting them.  Dante is most definitely straight and just excited to have found another kindred spirit, but Q is thrilled regardless.  He hasn’t had someone to really talk to since Duchess, and it’s nice to be able to text him in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep and get a grumbling response in return.  And though he’d love to muck up that perfectly parted and styled dark hair, watch a flush fight against his olive skin, Q settles for stolen glances.

 

Three weeks later, he asks him if he’d ever considered forgetting his name, and he stares at Q with such wide-eyed awe that Q laughs and says, “If you accept, your new name will be R.”

 

He’s been head of Q branch for almost a year when his mother calls and says, “Enough is enough.  I haven’t seen you for longer than an hour in months.  You’re coming over for a few days.”

 

“Mum,” he protests, “I have work.”

 

“Your brothers are coming over, as well.  It’s mandatory.”

 

“I can’t just skip out!” Q exclaims, “I have—clients to take care of.”

 

“They’ll be fine without you for a long weekend.  Friday and Monday, Q.  Please.”

 

He knows it’s a losing battle, and so he sighs and says, “I’ll talk to my boss,” though he’s not quite sure what that looks like.  He puts in a formal request that M accepts within about twenty minutes before she jots off an email asking him to coordinate with R to take over the branch while he’s gone.

 

“Don’t call in to check up.  We’ll be perfectly alright without you,” R reads over his shoulder when he receives her email, “Why does she think you’re so wonderful?”

 

“Come again?” Q says, looking over at him.

 

“She’s always so— _involved_ when it comes to you.”

 

“I dunno,” Q says, shrugging as he types back a quick response, “She recruited me, I guess?”

 

“She did?” R asks, shocked, “Wow.  I don’t think she’s done that in a long time.  Anyway.  Where are you going?”

 

“Home,” Q mutters, “My mum is adamant.”

 

“Oh cool,” R says, “Mine makes us all go round on Sundays, to church and everything.  It’s delightful.”

 

“I’d rather that,” Q says, “I’ll be crammed into one room with my three brothers for the next four days.”

 

“Three brothers?” R repeats, “That must have been interesting growing up.”

 

“How many siblings do you have?”

 

“One of each,” R says, reaching over to close Q’s laptop, “Go.  I’ve got everything under control.”

 

“I’ll have my laptop and phone,” Q says, “If anyone needs anything.”

 

“Sure you’ve got wifi?” R teases, so Q knocks their shoulders together as he gathers his things.  “Have fun,” R says, “Honestly, don’t freak out about us, we’ve got this.”

 

Q lingers, but eventually leaves, bundling up against the November chill as he sets out into the city and toward the station.  He takes the tube home, and he’s halfway down his street when he sees a familiar car parked outside his flat.

 

“Shae,” he says as he comes up, his brother climbing out of the car, “Mum send you to collect?”

 

“She didn’t want you dying in the cold, she said,” Shae says, following him up the stairs and inside, “She—holy shit, dude.  I feel like I just walked into the bat cave, you little fucking nerd.”

 

Q grins as he moves through the flat and toward his bedroom.  It’s not as though he has Star Trek posters hanging around, but there’s a certain familiarity with the scifi loving half of his brain in the form of a minimalist, framed _Predator_ poster, a Tardis blanket draped over the back of his sofa, and a R2D2 mug left out to dry on the kitchen counter.

 

“We’re gonna kill each other, all crammed in that room,” Shae groans when he steps into Q’s room with his queen size bed and ample walking space.

 

“In bunk beds, no less,” Q says, “I wonder if Connor still snores.”

 

“Duh,” Shae says, “Alright, come on, get packing or mum’s gonna have a fit.”

 

Q does as he’s told, pulling out a backpack from somewhere deep in his closet.  He packs clothes for the four days, picks out a few books, and then shoulders his laptop case, making a face when Shae sighs at him.  “Better not work all weekend,” he says.

 

“You sound like my boss,” Q says, grabbing his bag, “Ready?”

 

It turns out to be better than he expects.  Though they all bicker about the bunk beds, and Q still ends up on the top, it’s nice to sleep knowing they’re nearby, the rhythm of their breaths lulling him to sleep.

 

The first morning, he’s woken by his phone, which he forgot to silence, and which wakes up all of his brothers when it goes off.  “Dude,” Connor groans, ducking under the pillow, “Come on.”

 

“Sorry,” Q whispers, grabbing it.  He silences the call, scrambles out of the bed and hits the floor with a thud, hurrying over to his bag to rifle through it until he finds an earbud, pressing it in before he answers the call, “Hello?”

 

“Q!” 005 exclaims brightly, “Up and at ‘em, time for a little fun.”

 

Q sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before he creeps out of the room, and only when he’s in the hall does he murmur, “005, I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

 

“Sleeping, it appears.  I need a little assistance.”

 

“Can you call R, perhaps?”

 

“I did hear you were out of the office this weekend.  Ridiculous, truly.  No, I can’t.  R is bothersome.  He makes snippy comments about getting out of my own messes.”

 

“Well,” Q says, and 005 sighs dramatically, “Alright.  What’s wrong?”

 

“Right on, Q, my boy.  Can you see me?”

 

“In a moment,” Q says, going back into the room to retrieve his laptop.

 

He sets up downstairs at the kitchen table, typing slowly through a few command prompts until he can get his camera feed up, and he makes tea while it loads.  While the water’s boiling, he frowns at 005’s current location.  “That’s not good,” he says dryly.

 

“Precisely my point.  Can you see anything I can’t?”

 

“Probably,” Q says, sitting.  He starts searching, fingers flying over the keys as he works, and he almost doesn’t hear his mum come in, but she goes through his periphery, and he flashes her a smile when she leans down to kiss his hair.

 

“What are you doing?” she asks, watching him.

 

“I’ll be done soon, I promise,” he says, tilting his smile up to her.

 

“Better be,” she says.

 

He’s just tidying up when his brothers start drifting downstairs.  He’s on his second cup of tea when 005 says, “Q, my boy, don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

“End up dead, most likely,” Q says, watching him move toward his target, “Do me a favor, and call R if this happens again.”

 

“Q,” 005 bemoans, “Truly, you’ve struck me.”

 

“Are you nearly finished?” he asks, pulling one of his knees up as Connor sits next to him.  He starts to lean over, and Q’s fingers sweep over a few keys, throwing up a glare that won’t let him see anything.

 

“Whatever,” Connor says tiredly, leaning back.

 

“Target sighted,” 005 says.

 

“Excellent.  Signing off, 005,” he says before ending the call and beginning a shutdown sweep of his programs.

 

“Um,” Desmond says suddenly, and Q doesn’t look up, busy closing everything out and clearing any trails he may have left.  “Did you just say 005?” Desmond asks.

 

“What?” Q says, looking up.  It occurs to him, suddenly, that he was still _working_ while his brothers were within earshot.  It’s not exactly a state secret what the double ohs are called, considering 007 has made a rather loud name for himself, but Q’s been careful to not drop any hints about what he does.  “No,” he says quickly, “It’s just a—a, uh—a joke we have.  At the office,” he adds.

 

That’s the first time his family swallows the lie.

 

——

 

Q meets Eve the morning of the cat disaster.

 

He’s late, _first of all_ , which he is proud to claim has never happened before, even when he’s had to ditch his second cup of tea to catch the train in time, but the world is relentless and placed a kitten in his path, _second of all_.

 

Q is considerably put off about the fact that there is a _kitten_ in his bag when he hurries through the main doors to Q branch, starts to rattle of a useless excuse, and notices an unfamiliar figure standing at one of his desks.

 

“Hello?” he says curiously, pausing halfway toward his station, hand instinctively going to his bag lest he need to protect his new friend.

 

“Eve Moneypenny,” the woman says even as she turns, “You’re late.”

 

It comes out before Q is prepared to reveal it, “There was a cat.”

 

R blinks rapidly before he looks up and over, bewildered.  Q waves a hand at him and continues toward his station, upending his person on his chair and desks before he takes the kitten from his bag and sets it on a clear space.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Eve positively melts, coming forward, “Where did you find it?”

 

“A mile from my stop,” Q says, “In a fucking trashcan.”

 

“Well, that won’t do,” Eve says, ignoring the expletive, though Q can hardly be to blame, considering, “How can I help?”  Q quirks an eyebrow at her.  “Right,” she says, “M sent me to collect some things, but this is far more pressing.”

 

“Is it now?” Q asks, and then smiles, sitting, “I haven’t the faintest the gender.”

 

“Well, that’s easy,” Eve says before she plucks the kitten from the desk, coos when it meows pitifully at her, and starts looking at its belly.  “Girl,” she says, depositing it back down on his desk, “Do you have a name for your mascot?”

 

“Oh, she’s certainly not staying here,” R says from a considerable distance, “If that’s the case, I’ll be requesting a transfer.”

 

“Right,” Q says, “I knew that.”

 

“I’m sure you were busy trying to disentangle who left a poor, unassuming stray in a trashcan on the way to work, you’re forgiven,” R says, “But only a day.”

 

“Allergies are for the weak,” Eve tosses over her shoulder before she straightens, “What’ll it be, then?”

 

Q looks down at the small animal, in all her grey glory, and she stares back at him, unblinking.  “Joyce,” he says.  When Eve scoffs, he amends, “For James Joyce.”

 

“Oh, you’re a literary snob, excellent,” she says, and her smile is genuine, “Now, about these files I need.”

 

Q finds himself all too willing to comply, and, just like that, Eve is showing up at his flat with Indian takeaway three weeks later.  He finds himself feeling a tad self-conscious when he lets Eve in, and though he’d attempted to clean up before she arrived, R also called in to report on a system failure, and he spent most of his two hours attempting to clean sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, Joyce curled up in his lap beneath his laptop while he worked on rebooting and reorganizing.  And thus, when he opens the door at her knock, there are still books littered about his living room, various pieces of metal and parts strewn across his counters, and a kettle screaming for attention.

 

“You’re a mess,” Eve says as she comes in and hears the kettle, “Go get that.”

 

Q goes to do as told, grabbing Joyce on the way and depositing her in his sweater pocket as he does.  She curls up contently, and he makes two cups before returning to the living room, where Eve is splitting chopsticks.

 

“You’re becoming my favorite,” Q says, exchanging a mug for a pair.

 

“Favorite what?” Eve hazards, though she’s quickly distracted when Q sits and Joyce pokes out of his pocket.  “Hello darling,” Eve says, quickly putting down her mug so she has hands to take the kitten, “And how are you faring?”  Joyce meows, and Eve laughs softly.  “I see,” she says, “I’ll let him know your preferences.”

 

They get along fantastically.  Q isn’t quite certain he’s had a friend like this in—well, ever, and while it’s a little daunting, exhausting so much energy on one person, he doesn’t find it all that unappealing.  They stay up late that first night, starting with tea and quickly moving onto the bottle of whiskey that Eve snuck in.  Q doesn’t comment on how she knows what his favorite whiskey is, and thus she doesn’t ask why she’s left filling most of the silences.  He may be comfortable, but divulging too much has gotten him burned in the past, and so he’s taking things slow with Eve.

 

It isn’t long before she meets one of his brothers.  A few months, in fact, after a case that leaves her shaken, and she doesn’t want to spend the night alone, citing nightmares of shooting her partner.  Q offers his sofa, and Eve crushes him in a tight hug in response.  Q’s arms stiffen uselessly at his sides until Eve says, “Hug me back, you idiot,” and he does so quickly.

 

Connor is, inexplicably, at his door the following morning, before anyone has any reason to be awake, and Q is bleary-eyed behind his glasses when he opens the door.  “Connor?” he says uncertainly.

 

“I know you work for some secret government company,” Connor starts babbling, “And mum told me not to bother, but I thought maybe, I don’t know, somehow you could help, I just— _shit._ Someone took Moira.”

 

Q’s exhale comes several moments later, a breath he tried to remember not to hold, this hard, angry thing when he rouses R and says, “Who’s leading the skeleton crew right now?”

 

R mumbles something incomprehensible before he says, “Nala.”

 

“I need you awake,” Q says before he throws out a quick code, patching into his branch, “Nala, it’s Q.”

 

“Sir,” she says, her accent always thicker when Q hasn’t seen her in a few days, “Is everything okay?”

 

“It will be,” he says, “All programs on pause, I need everyone on task.”

 

“Absolutely,” she says, and Q listens to her take command of the room until she returns, “All yours, sir.”

 

“Q live,” he says, “R taking second, Eve third.  This is to remain confidential, understood?”

 

“Yes, sir,” several voices ring out.

 

“My niece is missing,” he says, “Moira.  Find her.”

 

Connor paces until Eve says, “Can you put the kettle on, dear?” and he quickly turns away, welcoming the distraction.

 

Three cups later, Q’s whole body deflates a little as his breath rushes out and he says, “Nala, please find 004 for me.”

 

“Transferring now.”

 

“Q?” 004’s voice crackles to life in his headset, “Is something amiss?”

 

“I need to ask a favor, if you might be so inclined.”

 

“Of course,” 004 says, “How can I be of assistance?”

 

“Discreetly,” Q says, “Q branch just located my missing niece.”

 

“Send me the coordinates,” 004 says quickly, “Shall I report to you—or another?” she adds, and Q understands the question.

 

He’s a little too close for comfort, and 004 is concerned with his judgment, which is why he says, “I remain your quartermaster, 004.”

 

“Duly noted, Q.  Leaving now.”

 

It takes four hours.  Q reroutes a call from M to Eve, who settles everything efficiently, and then 004 is delivering her final report, “Target acquired, hostiles restrained.”

 

“She’s okay,” Q says, head snapping over to find Connor, “She’s safe.”

 

Connor’s knees hit the floor, body folding over as his forehead meets his thighs, and Q makes quick work of expressing his eternal gratitude to 004 and arranging a pick-up before he crosses the room in quick strides to wrap around his brother.  “It’s okay,” he says as Connor breaks, a terrible shudder passing through him as he leans into Q, “Moira’s okay.”

 

The fallout is monumental.

 

He undergoes a debriefing with M herself, who reprimands him for not just bloody calling her, as she so eloquently puts it, and then she offers him something that only happens to those she deems deserving.  “I do not offer this lightly,” M says, hands coming together as she leans back in her chair, “But I am confident that you will not jeopardize the work we do here.”

 

“Of course not,” Q says without knowing what’s coming.

 

“Would you like to explain to your family?” she asks.  Q just blinks at her.  “Within reason, obviously,” she says, “And there’s an unbecoming amount of paperwork involved, which is, quite honestly, a small part of the reason we don’t offer this often, but, alas, I cannot help but see something fierce in you, Q.”

 

“When?” he asks.

 

“As soon as everything has been signed and explained.  If any of them are uncomfortable with what they are being asked to sign, even a single one, then you may tell none of them still.”

 

“I understand,” Q says quickly.

 

His mum nearly faints.  She does close her eyes, inhaling loudly as Shae and Desmond stare at him in disbelief.  Connor hugs him, which surprises Q the most.

 

Without warning, it’s back to work, only two days after Moira has been returned to her family, and yet, for whatever reason, he sees his family more often now that they know the bare bones of what he does.  His brothers even jokingly call him Q once or twice.

 

Life carries on.  For an entire, wonderful year, Q thrives.  And then, he meets James Bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This was quite the event, writing this. I'm still in the process, but I'm on the third part, and the end is in sight. Kind of. There's a lot that needs to happen still, and I'd like to get to _Spectre_ eventually--it'll happen, don't worry--but it's still a ways off. As for how this is structured, there are three parts--avant, pendant, après; before, during, after. I'm planning on posting them a week apart each, and thus you will receive the during section (which is obnoxiously long) next Friday. This will also allow me time to finish the after section.
> 
> These two (and this fic) might actually be the death of me, and I really, really hope that you've enjoyed their story thus far. Don't worry, James is present throughout all of part two. But, for now, don't forget to leave your thoughts!


	2. pendant

_Let’s get covered in flames,_

_and play some games with the smoke._

 

The week before he’s due to turn twenty-nine, which Eve has promised a wild celebration for, there’s a begrudging email sitting in his inbox when he logs in at the start of a long day.  He reads through it diligently, switching from laptop to phone as he goes to make tea.

 

“Anything good?” R asks as he appears at Q’s elbow.

 

“We’ve officially been given reigns of the entire double oh department.”

 

“I thought we already had it,” R says, pouring water into Q’s scrabble mug because he’s busy reading.

 

“We were two agents shy,” Q says, finally closing out of the email and frowning when R reaches for caffeinated, regular black tea.

 

“Right,” R says, noticing his look and switching to caffeinated chai, “And whom have we acquired?”

 

“007 and 009,” Q says, taking the mug from R, “Thank you.”

 

“I’ve heard fun things about them,” R says, following him over to his desk.  Q shoots him a glance over his shoulder, confused as to why R is tailing him, but his second in command just keeps talking, “Heard they were quite the duo.”

  
“I prefer 004,” Q says, stepping behind his desks and sighing in exasperation when R leans across the front of the main one.

 

“You just like her because she doesn’t have time for bullshit.”

 

“Precisely,” Q says, “R, can I help you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Is there some reason for this sudden shadow?” Q asks as nicely as he can manage.

 

R takes it in stride.  Quite to the contrary of what Q was expecting of a reaction, actually, R says, “So I was telling my best mate a little about you.”  Q blinks at him, and when R doesn’t continue, he lifts his mug, starting to drink and then stopping when he remembers how hot it still is.  He places the mug down and steps in the direction of his laptop when R says, “He happens to be a guy.”

 

“Please do get to the point eventually,” Q says, opening up a program.

 

“I told him I might try to set him up, if you were interested.”

 

Q carefully masks his expression as he keeps typing.  As evenly as he can, he says, “You told your friend you would try to set him up on a—what?  A date with me?”

 

“He thinks you sound pretty cool!” R says, standing up and smiling as though he’s succeeded, “He’s been moping around so much since his last break up, and I thought it would be really nice for both of you.”

 

This time, Q allows his fingers to careen to a halt as he looks up sharply at R.  “And what, pray tell, gives you the assumption that I’m looking?”

 

“First of all,” R says, dropping an elbow back onto Q’s desk, “You asked me to dinner that first time, and you definitely tried to see if I was gay.”

 

“Not specifically,” Q says, “Just interested.”

 

“Not the point,” R says, “I know how much time you spend here.”

 

Q narrows his eyes.  “Don’t start keeping tabs on how long I’m here, or I’ll stick your desk next to Jared’s.”

 

“I heard that,” Jared mutters from the far end of the room.

 

“Heathen,” Q throws harmlessly in his direction, and Jared resists getting himself in further trouble after last week’s absolute debacle that was 002’s mission.  Q had had to drag himself in at three in the morning because Jared had managed to mangle things so badly, he didn’t even want to attempt to solve it from home.  “I’m not looking,” he directs at R now.

 

“One date,” R says, “And then you can just ignore him for the rest of your miserable sodding life.”

 

R doesn’t give him an opportunity to answer before he turns and stalks away, and Q grumbles defeat as he watches R text once at his desk.

 

An hour later, Eve clicks in, flashing R a brilliant smile that Q pretends he doesn’t see before she drops a stack of folders onto his desk.  “Rude,” Q says without looking up.

 

“What are you up to?” Eve asks, her smile still in place.

 

“If you plotted this with R, I—”

 

“Threats are useless,” Eve says, “I left a present at your flat.”

 

Q peers up at her briefly before returning to the gun he’s working on.  It’s one of the few times he allows himself to sit, and his left knee is drawn in against his chest so that he can fold more easily around his work.  It also prevents him from being easily swayed into a more neutral position.

 

“Is it a male stripper?” Q asks, if only to hear Nala abruptly start giggling.

 

“I can arrange that,” Eve says, “But I think you might prefer this.  A friend.”

 

Q blinks, and promptly unfolds, straightening.  “You didn’t,” he says.

 

“She was so lonely!” Eve exclaims, flipping her phone toward Q, who snatches it from her, zooming in on the all black cat sitting there.  “Male,” Eve supplies.

 

“Keats,” Q says immediately, handing the phone back, “How did Joyce take to the intrusion?”

 

“Splendidly,” Eve says, “Will you concede to the date?”

 

“Foul play,” Q says, scooting his foot closer before he goes back to work.  There’s silence, so he blows hot air at the gun and mutters, “Yes.”

 

R’s fingers dash across his phone so loud, Q almost swears at him.  “What are you up to?” Eve echoes her earlier question.

 

“I’ll sign those later,” Q says, nodding in the direction of the files.

 

“You’ll sign them in approximately three minutes, actually.  They’re needed elsewhere.  What is that?”

 

Q lets out a triumphant noise, drops one of his tools, and stretches out his fingers before he lifts the gun, right arm extending out, R yells, “For shame!”, and Q takes aim, pressuring the trigger.  Nothing happens, though all of Q branch is tensed to prepare for it.

 

“Faulty?” Eve asks, though she sounds put off that that’s her assumption.

 

“Perfect, actually,” Q says, lowering the weapon, “It’s coded.”

 

“To?”

 

“A handprint,” Q says, “I have a meeting, I believe is what you’re here to tell me.”

 

“Foul play,” Eve says, tapping his desk, “But yes.  Where would you like to arrange it?”

 

Q grins maliciously, carefully places the Walther down, and says, “The art gallery.  The ship.  Tomorrow morning.”

 

Eve shakes her head at him.  “M is going to lose her fondness for you someday.”

 

Q barks out an empty laugh and stretches, twisting to each side to listen to his spine pop.  “Guarantee seven of my shots that you’re wrong.”

 

“Oh, you’re on.  Now?” Eve asks, squaring her shoulders.

 

“Papers?”

 

“They can wait,” Eve says, and Q grins, heading around his desk.

 

“R, you’ve got the floor.  Don’t let Jared do anything stupid.”

 

“Jared went home, sir,” Nala says, “Shift ended an hour ago.”

 

“The statement remains the same,” Q says before he’s gone.

 

Q doesn’t often resort to physical displays to settle wagers, but with Eve, it’s almost always a certain outcome.  Ever since she snorted when he said he’d easily be able to defend himself against her—and nearly proved her right—she’s been testing his limits.  Now, when they get down to the shooting range, it’s met without surprise.

 

005 had once implied that he doubted Q could use anything that he gave field agents, so Q had picked up the nearest knife he’d been tinkering with and whipped it at the wall to his right, careening smoothly through the air to land just a centimeter away from his intended mark, a small notch in the wall.  That was the first time he’d ever demonstrated his anger without his words.  The following morning, someone—he firmly believes it was R—had secured a target to the wall, and he’s been known to test some of his projects on that wall in particular.

 

Now, he nearly loses his cool because Eve won’t stop badgering him, but he manages to get seven deadly shots in, calling out different body parts as the targets inch closer to them.  When they’re finished, Eve says, “Don’t tell your date you’re an excellent marksman,” and Q laughs without reserve as he flicks the safety on.

 

“It might be an excellent conversation starter,” Q says, and Eve shoves him.

 

He doesn’t intend to stay up all night working on a challenge hack that Nala finds and ropes the entire branch into attempting, but then, without warning, he’s receiving a message from Eve, _don’t forget about your meeting in thirty minutes._

 

“Shit,” Q says, beginning extraction.

 

 _Also, he’s in a mood, so don’t be cheeky._   Q scoffs at Eve’s message.

 

“Aw, boss,” R says, noticing Q’s absence as the firewalls grow significantly stronger, “Giving up?”

 

“Oh, we’ll continue this tango later,” Q says, “But I’m afraid we’ve inadvertently wasted precious time, and now I’m due to be late for an important meeting.  And you—” he pauses to kick the rest of them out of the hack, biting back a smile at the resounding groans, “—are all going home.  R, Nala, Keira, you have the branch while I’m gone.  Get,” he adds when the rest of them sit there.

 

His minions slowly start gathering their things, and he leaves them talking about the hack while he hurries out, making for the nearest elevator.

 

Q loathes to admit that it’s all terribly exciting.  Shortly after he was finally granted access to 004 and 005, and after he survived a few missions with 005, M transferred 003, 008, and 006 to his desk—at the same time.

 

003 was quiet and unassuming, always completing his missions without much trouble, which Q constantly appreciates.  008 is his personal favorite, perhaps even tied with 004, as both women maintain professionalism while allowing minor insights and enjoyable conversations post mission.  Both also almost always return their equipment intact and reports on time.  006, however, provides a little more insight into the mystery of James Bond, as his first words to Q are, “Ah, haven’t been trusted with the bulldog yet, I see.”

 

It becomes quickly apparent that Alec sports nothing but fondness for 007, and this only intrigues Q further.  He’d been warned by Eve long before this meeting was arranged to not fall for him, and yet another reason was presented for why he wanted to meet him.

 

Now, when he turns the corner and sees a man in a well-fitted suit, a hard jaw, and bored blue eyes, Q can’t help it—the corner of his mouth twitches up.  He stifles it as he crosses the room and sits next to him, noting how James observes him with a quick glance, cursory.

 

They exchange a few words, James tries to offend and fails—he isn’t the first and certainly not the last in a long list of people to think he’s too young for this position—and then he hands James the Walther, nodding in satisfaction when he observes it with keen interest.  It’s their banter that makes Q sigh with relief when he exits the art gallery, however.

 

He adores his agents, he does—even 005—but he’s missed having someone like Duchess, someone to keep him on his toes and challenge him intellectually, and already, he can feel something easy falling in place between him and 007.

 

Q blames his excitement on why he texts R, _What is your friend’s name?_

 

 _Aidan_ , R’s response is instant, _Shall I arrange something?_

 

_Is he free tonight?_

 

There’s a few minutes’ pause where Q changes his mind and asks his driver to take him home instead, giving him an address a street over.  _Yes.  He said he can pick you up at seven?_

 

Q checks his watch.  It’s nearly nine, so he’ll at least be able to nap for a few hours.  _Excellent.  Thank you._

 

Q’s thanking his driver when another text comes in, and he checks it as he pauses on the sidewalk, waiting for them to drive away before he starts walking down the street.  _I don’t know if this is weird, but—I mean, I refer to you as Q, obviously, so._

 

 _I’m sure he can find a way to ask my name,_ Q types back, and if it’s a little vindictive, he’s okay with that.

 

He sleeps until two, wakes up to his new cat, Keats, kneading into his shoulder, Joyce curled up on the pillow next to his, and bangs around in his kitchen until something resembling coffee is being drained from a mug.  He makes another, paying attention this time, and he even fiddles with the foam on top, designing while he waits for the results on Aidan to arrive.

 

Though he knows he’ll get about seventeen texts from his obnoxious brothers about ranking high on the hipster list, Q snaps a picture of the resulting leaf floating atop his latte, throws it onto a social media platform, and then dives into the background check.

 

He gets four texts, all from Connor.

 

 _You are such a loser_ , comes the first one as Q discovers that Aidan owns and runs a small bookstore.

 

 _Jesus Christ, you seriously drew a fucking leaf in your coffee AND put it on Instagram, I actively hate you_.  Q grins at his phone before hacking into Aidan’s Facebook profile and checking out his security settings.

 

 _That actually looks really good._   Q sends another picture of his half empty mug Connor’s way after he confirms that Aidan is definitely unmarried and without children.

 

 _I miss you.  Family brunch?_   Q pulls away reluctantly from a file containing Aidan’s school history to smile sadly at the text.

 

_I’ll cook,_ Q types back, _This Sunday?_

 

_I’m already calling Shae and Desmond.  You can tell mum.  She’ll be ecstatic._

 

Q checks his fridge while he calls her, decides he needs to do the shopping sooner rather than later, and puts the kettle on when his mum picks up.  Their conversation carries him through a travel mug, the walk to the store, and into the cheese aisle before he hangs up.

 

He really thinks he shouldn’t be surprised when there’s a knock on his door at 6PM sharp, but his brow is still furrowed in confusion when he opens it to reveal Eve.  “Really?” he says.

 

“Just making sure you look dashing,” Eve says, sweeping in, “This could be the love of your life.”  Q lets her have her way until she’s stepping back and saying, “I mean—I’d fuck you.”

 

“Jesus,” Q exhales, rolling his eyes as he turns away, seeking out the mirror in his bathroom.  She’s put him in a dark green cardigan over a white button-up and dark grey slacks.  He fiddles with the collar, making a face at the lack of tie, before he returns to his room and nods.

 

“You should invest in contacts,” Eve says as she takes him in, “Show off your eyes a bit more.”

 

“Been there, tried that,” Q says, shrugging one shoulder, “We didn’t get along.  Time for a cup?”

 

“I should be off, actually,” Eve says, straightening from his bed as she checks her watch, “And you shouldn’t.  You’ll be jittery all dinner.”

 

“I may fall asleep otherwise,” Q quips, already heading for the kitchen and kettle.

 

“Mint, then,” Eve says, reaching around him to pluck the top off of one of his mason jars, handing him a mixed mint bag, “Less caffeine, better breath.”

 

Q sighs miserably at her, so Eve lifts up onto her toes to peck him on the cheek before she’s taking her leave.  He manages to distract himself with a minor side project at the small table in his kitchen while he drinks his tea until seven finally rolls around, and Aidan is exactly on time, knocking sharply.

 

Q pulls up the secure video feed implemented into his door on his laptop to check that it’s really him, smiling when he looks at him.  He has close-cropped brown curls, big brown eyes, and freckles across the bridge of his nose that Q is already in love with.  When he opens the door, his smile warming considerably, Aidan reveals a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back, and Q thinks he could quite possibly have an excellent time tonight, if this is any indication.

 

R’s a sneaky bastard, and so he spots the hyacinth almost immediately, which is surrounded by tuberose and one gorgeous bronze chrysanthemum.  The meaning of each is not lost on him, and Q muses, “Clever conversation starter.”

 

“I did hear you were something of a genius,” Aidan quips, his smile shifting into a smirk, “Thought I might try to play the game.”

 

“No games necessary,” Q says, stepping to the side to grab his coat, “Shall I put those in water?”

 

“Yes,” Aidan says, handing them over, “I hope you like them.”

 

“All are cat-friendly, so it helps,” Q says, turning and laughing softly when he sees Joyce and Keats peering out of his bedroom.

 

“Oh,” Aidan says, “How adorable.  Are they related?”

 

“Sadly, no,” Q says, glancing to see Aidan stepping just inside, eyes holding their unwavering gaze, “Though they certainly act that way.”

 

Q runs a larger mason jar under water before settling the flowers inside, watching them unravel from their bindings to settle together, and then he places them on the counter by his tea, turns, and points a finger at Keats, “If I find you’ve been on the counter again, I’ll have serious words for you.”

 

“Take note,” Aidan says, nodding at Keats, “Good behavior rewards.”

 

“Precisely,” Q says, and then they’re off.

 

They make small talk in the car—favorite colors, where Q’s cat names came from, a brief argument on the current soccer status—and then Aidan pulls up at a small Thai restaurant, and Q nearly sighs in relief, but maintains composure, instead just smiling brightly when he steps out of the car.

 

“So,” Aidan says once they’re sat, and Q waits for the inevitable question, not looking up from his menu at first, “It happens to be a full moon tonight, and I thought we might check it out after, if you were so inclined.”  Q’s gaze snaps up, blinking a few times before he nods and smiles.

 

Dinner carries on, and Q finds himself relaxing more and more as he does.  Aidan is stimulating and funny, which Q would be happy enough about, but then he never asks what Q does for a living.  It comes up, eventually, though it’s Q that does the talking.  As they’re waiting on the check, sipping coffee, he says, “I’m curious.”

 

“As am I,” Aidan says, “Though perhaps about different topics, I imagine.”

 

“You haven’t once asked me about my job,” Q says, “And yet, I’ve heard plenty about your bookstore.  Which, by the way, you have to show me someday.”  He doesn’t mean for the last bit to come out, but it does, and Aidan does nothing to dampen the open joy he feels at the idea of more dates.

 

“Dante led me to believe it was confidential.”

 

Q’s brain takes a moment to catch up.  He knows R’s name, but hasn’t heard it in ages, and he wastes a full six seconds mentally checking faces against names before he blurts out, “Shit, I honestly forgot his name.”

 

Aidan’s laugh is a little strained as he says, “You did?”

 

“Sorry,” Q says quickly, “I know him as R, not Dante.  Obviously, when I hired him, there was a name on the resume, but it fades quite quickly.”

 

“Ah,” Aidan says, his expression clearing, “That explains why he calls you Q.  Good to know that the stereotype doesn’t reflect first initials.”

 

Q laughs.  “No, not at all, or I would have claimed his moniker.”

 

“Clues,” Aidan says, but doesn’t ask, and that solidifies Q’s certainty that this could turn into something.  When their check arrives, Aidan tries to pay for it, Q demands they go Dutch, and they settle after a quick, silent battle raged between them that Aidan finally loses, sighing his defeat loudly.

 

“Oh, hush,” Q says, fishing out his wallet, “It’s a new age of chivalry.  This idea that one person is designated to support the outing is archaic.”

 

“Wow,” Aidan says, his smile betraying how impressed he is, “Dante was dead on.”

 

“With?” Q asks, lifting his cup and sipping from his quickly cooling coffee.

  
“You,” Aidan says, “He knows me well.”

 

“Good to know,” Q says before he downs the rest of his coffee.  Shortly after, they’re taking their leave, and Aidan leads them away from the car and down toward the small pier nearby.  They take in the moon from there, huddled deep in their coats and sides pressed comfortably together.

 

After Q stifles a yawn—the coffee is helping, but he still hasn’t slept enough in the past few days—Aidan turns, elbow tucking onto the railing as he focuses his attention on Q rather than on their quiet conversation and the moon.  “I had a really nice time tonight,” he says, “I’d like to see you again.”

 

“As would I,” Q says, allowing the weight of this truth to bleed into his voice, “Soon, hopefully.”

 

“Indeed,” Aidan says before stepping in closer, and _damn it_ , Q is never going to forget this moment—Aidan’s wind-cool mouth pressing against his own, one hand gently guiding Q closer even as the other grips the railing, basked in the gentle light of the full moon.

 

Q will forever deny that he doesn’t quite pull back.  Rather, he kisses Aidan before he can step away, and they stand there for a few long minutes, learning the shape of each other’s mouths before, finally, Q draws back, nose brushing Aidan’s as he whispers, “I hate to call an end to this, but I haven’t slept in several—days.”

 

“Pitiful,” Aidan says, and Q steps back as he laughs, soft but open, ducking his eyes as he does.  “Your job that demanding?” Aidan asks as he reaches out a hand, and Q glances at it before he allows himself to take Aidan’s hand, twining their fingers together as they walk down the pier.

 

“Occasionally,” Q says, “I was finishing a project, and then the minions discovered a surprisingly difficult hack, and we may have stayed up all night working on it.”

 

“You’re their boss, then?  The—minions?” Aidan echoes.

 

Q nods.  “It was their idea, _minions_.  Started as a joke, but then the whole bleeding office started calling them that.”

 

“It sounds interesting, your job,” Aidan says, “Perhaps someday it will be less confidential?”

 

Q speaks honestly, “That requires a lot of paperwork.”

 

Aidan doesn’t press it, and the rest of their walk and subsequent drive home is done so in a companionable silence.  When Aidan pulls up at Q’s building, he says, “Obviously, I have a flexible schedule, what with owning the bookstore, but I take it you do not.”

 

“I can,” Q says, “What with being _the man_.”  Aidan’s laugh rumbles out between them, and Q smiles.  God, he can’t _stop_.  “I’ll let you know my next free day or night?”

 

“I’d love that,” Aidan says, “Thank you for tonight, Q.”

 

It’s the first time Aidan’s used the moniker, and it settles heavily in Q’s stomach.  He wants to fidget, to show his discomfort, and he’s not quite sure where it comes from other than it sounds too formal in Aidan’s voice, too much like he’s back behind his laptop, trying furiously to get 005 out of some ridiculous mess.  And thus, it comes unbidden, “Rowan.”

 

“Pardon?” Aidan says, his eyebrows dipping down.

 

Q inhales, holds it, and echoes, “Rowan.  Not Q.”

 

Aidan’s smile eases Q’s uncertainty, and then he’s leaning across the car to kiss him, hard and wanting.  Q responds in like, one hand coming up to curl around Aidan’s jaw, fingers pressing against his neck until Aidan pulls back and says, “Goodnight, Rowan.”

 

Q absolutely does not call Eve the second he’s inside.

 

——

 

R is positively insufferable the next day.  He asks approximately thirty-seven questions, 75% of which Q ignores, and he’s almost grateful that Sunday is looming nearby.  When it does finally come around, Q wakes early, putting his kettle on before he hunts down his glasses, which Keats has taken to hiding.  He finds them beneath the sofa, flicks some water at Keats on his way by, and then retypes a text to Aidan four times before he finally sends it.  _I have a night shift at work, going in at 9PM.  Fancy dinner beforehand?_

 

His response comes as the kettle starts shrieking, and Q grumbles at it, pouring it over something that has not enough caffeine.  _You’re up early._

 

Q checks his watch—7AM, bloody hell.

 

_Sorry,_ he types back, _Family brunch.  I’m cooking._

 

_I’ll pick you up at six?  Anything you’re craving?_

 

 _Indian_ , Q sends back immediately, _I dreamt about naan bread last night._

 

He can almost hear Aidan’s resounding laugh in his reply, _Great, now I’m getting out of bed due to secondhand hunger.  My sister told me about this Indian place on the other side of town._

 

_Sounds perfect.  I look forward to it._

 

_Oi, getting rid of me that easy?_

 

Q swears at himself even as he smiles ridiculously down at his phone.  _I’m a bit horrendous at remembering to reply, but I’ll do my best._

 

_I’ve been thinking about the other night nonstop.  I can’t wait to see you again._

 

“God fucking _damn_ it,” Q mutters, tossing his phone onto the counter and taking his tea into his room.  He needs more caffeine before he can deal with this and not be an utter sap in return.  As morning starts to come in earnest, Q starts cooking, carrying on a two-hour conversation that seems to have no end, which would normally give him cause for anxiety—because what the hell do you talk about for that long—but instead finds his core warming a little each time his phone vibrates.

 

And then, he’s halfway through cutting potatoes when a different alert pops up, and he lets out a disgruntled noise before going to find a pair of earbuds.  “Q speaking,” he says as he comes back into the kitchen.

 

“Sir,” Nala says, “I know it’s your day off, but it appears we’re in need of assistance, and you instructed us to leave R alone.”

 

“Which one?” Q asks.

 

Nala’s grin is palpable when she responds, “005, sir.”

 

“Absolutely not.  What has he done this time?”

 

“Well, he blew up a helicopter, for one.”

 

“Create a task force,” Q interrupts her, “I refuse to deal with him today, and he needs to learn that sometimes his problems are his own.”

 

Nala bristles with excitement, and Q knows he should have done this sooner, pulled away and shown 005 a little less mercy, particularly because M has suggested doing so, but if he’s going to let brunch—and Aidan—be disturbed by his antics every time, he’s going to end up killing him himself.

 

“Anything else?” Q asks, preparing to hang up.

 

“004 was also looking for you, sir.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

“Russia, sir.”

 

“Patch me through.”

 

Q waits while Nala works, and he’s just finishing the potatoes when 004’s voice comes through, “Q, thank goodness.”

 

“And the rest of the branch isn’t qualified enough?” he says.  It doesn’t matter if he has a fond spot for her, it’s becoming tedious that none of the double ohs seem to trust his minions.

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, and it’s the sentiment alone that gives Q pause.

 

“Is everything okay, 004?”

 

“I have an awfully large request of you.”  Q waits.  “It’s not mission-related.”

 

Q exhales, putting the potatoes in the oven and heading off in search of his laptop.  “Where was she last?” he asks, folding his legs beneath him on his bed.

 

“New Orleans,” 004 says, her voice heavy.

 

“There was a shooting there,” Q clarifies, “And you haven’t been able to reach her?”

 

“No.”

 

Q starts typing, and 004 waits through his silence.  The day after they’d retrieved Moira, she had come into the branch and quietly pulled him aside into his office, offering any assistance that he might need.  Q had been touched, and even confided in her that he’d told his family everything.  Her daughter is currently backpacking across America, and he’s been keeping tabs on her at 004’s request.

 

Finally, though, he finds her.  “She’s currently waiting for an appointment at an Apple store,” he says, “I presume her phone was injured.”

 

“Christ,” 004 says, “Thank you, Q.  I’m sorry for intruding on your brunch.”

 

“It hasn’t started yet,” he admits, “Though someone’s just knocked at the door.  How is the mission?”

 

“Recon at the moment,” 004 says as Q taps into his cameras on the screen beside the door, opening it when he sees Connor and Shae.

 

“Russia has delightful pastries,” Q says as his brothers come in, making noise about him working.

 

“I’ll be sure to bring some back,” 004 says with the hint of a smile, “004 signing off.”

 

“Nala?”

 

“Here, sir.”

 

“Is that all?  Shut up,” he adds to Connor.

 

“Are you nearly done?” Connor asks, “Mum’s on her way over with Desmond.”

 

“Barring any more explosions, sir, we should be fine,” Nala says.

 

“If 005 blows anything else up, ignore his calls,” Q says, though he doesn’t mean it, “Q going dark.”

 

He waits for the connection to drop before he tugs out the earbuds and stows them with his phone, not checking to see if he has a new message from Aidan.

 

Brunch is loud and fun.  His mum devises that something’s changed in his love life with startling speed, and they spend an hour badgering him for details and dishing out unwanted advice.  As revenge, he adds a little extra into her mimosa, and she just grins at him before downing half of it.  Their morning wastes away in good company and excellent food, all talking nonstop as they recount any news in their lives recently.

 

When they eventually drift into the living room, Desmond goes to hunt down Joyce, though he comes back with Keats.  They talk about Lily’s upcoming recital, Desmond’s oldest, and Q promises to try to be there, if his schedule allows, Shae drops a bomb about potentially proposing to his girlfriend, which Connor offers to help with as he and Kelli are old friends, and, all the while, their mum’s smile never once falters, never betrays the medical news she received last week.

 

Q isn’t aware brunch is the last time he’ll ever see her until three days later, when Silva shatters MI-6’s careful infrastructure.

 

Q is aware, however, of James’s presence in his branch before anyone else notices.  He hates to admit that it feels as though the air around them has changed, tightened minutely and with enough hint of urgency that Q pushes away from his desk, chair spinning as he lifts his head.  When he came back from his two days off, he’d done so an hour early in order to rearrange.  Now, his desks are in something of a closed circle, keeping irritants at bay.

 

And thus, when he turns, he catches sight of the cameras by the entrance, noting Bond’s arrival before he meets his gaze as said agent strides through the desks toward him.  When R finally notices, he actually drops his phone and swears when it clatters against the ground.

 

“Bond,” Q says evenly, lifting one eyebrow, “Can I help you?”

 

James sets what masquerades as a hard cased briefcase, but what Q identifies immediately as a laptop.  “Is this his?” he asks, straightening away from his chair and walking over to his main desk, turning the laptop to face him.

 

“M wants to know everything,” James says, tapping his desk once before he starts to _prowl_.  Q watches him out of his periphery, only stopping when James stills, just beyond his line of sight, _behind him_.  Q bristles, but then accounts for his position—at the back of the room, where he can see everything, away from the exit—and he nods, flipping the locks and opening the laptop.

 

“Alright,” he says, wiring in, “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

 

He catches the lilting smirk that James doesn’t bother stifling when Q quips that he invented the codes he’s trying to hack.  Somehow, though, it spurs him on, pushes him to move faster, eyes darting behind his glasses as he absorbs everything.  When he turns again, it’s with a minute glance at James, absorbing that, too.

 

He’s wearing dark grey and blue, _damn him_ , and he looks good in it.  James notices the look, though all he does is quirk an eyebrow in response, so Q huffs a soft sigh and continues his work.

 

And then he’s running.  Q blinks at him as he darts out of the branch, and then he looks at Silva’s laptop and starts making use of his favorite swear word.

 

They’re in the middle of devouring Silva’s hack, picking it apart and looking into every crevice it has to offer when the call comes in.  “Sir,” Nala says, but he doesn’t react, in too deep.  He’s got one standard issue earphone in, keeping in touch with James, and another modified one, leaking something loud and furious into the creative half of his brain.  His glasses have slid a bit down his nose, and he’s sitting, one knee drawn in against him.

 

“Sir,” Nala says, pushing away from her desk.  She’d worn purple today, having woken up feeling festive, and her dark, twisting dreadlocks are piled high.  Q had smiled at her and complimented her dress when he’d first walked in, and she would give anything to hold onto that smile when she stops at his desk, tapping once.

 

“Busy,” Q says automatically, and Nala frowns, looking back down at the alert on her phone.

 

“Q,” she says, and this, finally, pulls him away.  They rarely ever use his moniker, with the exception of R, and it sounds strange coming from her now.

 

He blinks blearily up at her, vision focusing.  “Yes?” he says.

 

“There’s a personal call for you,” she says, “It’s logged under a name.”

 

Q’s blood starts to run cold as he asks, “What name?”

 

“Desmond,” she says.

 

He looks back down at the laptop.  He’s so close, he can feel it singing through his veins, but instead he nods and reaches for his own laptop, pulling up a secure line.  “Thank you,” he says before he taps in, “Des?”

 

“Thank god,” Desmond exhales loudly, “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

 

“How did you find this number?”

 

“It was in mum’s phone, hidden.  Shae found it, actually.  Are you at work?”

 

“I am.  I can’t—there’s a lot—what’s wrong?” he settles on.

 

“That’s you, on the telly, isn’t it?” Desmond asks, and Q sighs.  He can’t imagine what the news is playing.  “A fucking train crashed through the tube into the underground tunnels.  Are you helping with that?”

 

“I am,” Q says, “And I need to get back to it.  What’s wrong?”

 

“Mum’s in the hospital, in the ICU.”

 

Q doesn’t respond.  He can’t.  This isn’t happening.  He opens and closes his mouth, and then lifts a hand to cover it, straightening in his chair.  Nala is watching him, her frown deepening.  “Why?” he says from behind his hand.

 

“They—she— _fuck_.”

 

“Des, breathe.”

 

“She knew,” he forces out, and Q just waits, “She knew she was sick, and she didn’t tell any of us.  It’s fucking terminal, and she didn’t say _anything_.”  Q closes his eyes, tries to hold it inside himself, tries to drown it.  “They don’t know how long she has.”

 

Q breaks.  Just a fraction, but he does, and half of his branch is there to witness it.  They’re all drawn by Nala’s inattention to the hack, and have instead followed her gaze to their fearless leader, who turns his back to them, shoulders hitching up by his ears.

 

“I know you can’t be here right now,” Desmond says quickly, composing himself enough that Q forces himself to do the same, lowering his shoulders.

 

“Q?” James says into his ear.

 

Fuck.

 

Q lifts a hand, and R grabs it, redirecting.  He listens to him rattle off, telling James to sod off into a trashcan when James presumably makes a smart remark about getting R and not Q.  “I can’t,” Q says finally to his brother, “They’re trying to destroy us.”

 

“I know,” Desmond says, “Stay there.  I’ll keep you updated.”

 

“As soon as I’m done, or can leave it with someone, I’ll be there.  Give—give her my love.”

 

“She knows,” Desmond says, and then, “It’s going to be okay.  Everything will be okay.  Go to work, baby brother.”

 

“Shut up,” Q says because he needs to and because it gives Desmond reason to huff an empty laugh.

 

They hang up, Q jerks to his feet, and Nala says, “Sir?”

 

“Just a moment,” Q says briskly, schooling his voice as he swallows it all down, inhales deeply, and turns back to face them.  “What?” he says, and his voice is harder than he intends it to be, “Back to work, there’s nothing to see here.”

 

Every minion but Nala does as they’re told, and Q refuses to look at her.  “What?” Q says again when he turns to R.

 

“There was a shootout at the ministry.”

 

“Christ,” Q exhales, lifting a hand to scrub through his hair, “Okay.  We have to figure this out.  Can you call in the skeleton crew for tonight?  All hands on deck.”

 

“Absolutely,” R says, hurrying away.  He does that and more, dropping a fresh mug of tea at Q’s laptop while he’s working on Silva’s, and Q hums in thanks, immediately reaching for it.

 

This is how they work.  Q takes lead, as always, slipping through the cracks and occasionally calling out ideas.  R refills his tea whenever he’s going by or working a problem with Q.  Nala takes lead when the skeleton crew arrives, and they attack a specific bit of code while R directs the rest of the minions to divide and conquer.  He and Q pick away diligently at the worst of it.

 

Two days pass.

 

Q gets one fleeting call from James to lay breadcrumbs, which he promises to do, for whatever damning reason.  He’s exhausted and hopped up on caffeine when MI-6 is returned to his doting hands.  “Fucking shit,” he exhales when it happens, and no one looks up, too involved.

 

Though he just wants to slump back in his chair and take a small nap, he opens up a program and remotely freezes everyone’s laptop.  “Sir!” someone exclaims, jumping upright.

 

“MI-6 is secure,” he says, “Go home.”

 

No one argues.  In minutes, the room has cleared, leaving Tanner to find Q with his glasses on the desk and face in his hands, elbows holding him upright.  “Q?” he asks as he comes in.

 

He doesn’t respond right away, and Tanner frowns when he says, “Okay.  I’ve got one last thing to do, and I’ll be over.”  He lifts his head, removes an earphone, and notices Tanner.  “Oh,” he says, “Hello.  Sorry, personal call.”

 

Tanner shrugs.  “You ready for this?”

 

Q reaches for his glasses and nods.  He goes dark, removing himself from every ounce of distraction, makes a cup of coffee, strong and black and awful, and gets to work.  Mallory finds them like this, and Q thinks he might just be out of a job when all of this is over until Mallory taps his desk and tells them to carry on.

 

For all their trouble, it only takes an hour to lay the trail, and another for Silva to pick it up and start following.  Q watches him, waiting.  He can’t leave this until it’s done, though he desperately wants to call to check in on his mum.  And thus, he’s the first one to hear it.

 

“Agent down.”

 

It’s James’s voice.  Schooled to sound coolly indifferent, but Q knows what it means if it’s him that’s speaking.  “Confirm,” Q says immediately, and then again when James doesn’t respond, “007, confirm.”

 

“M is dead.”  Q waits.  “As is Silva.”

 

“What’s your location?”

 

He doesn’t remember anything after that.  Though he’s only had two personal conversations in his life with M, she was the one to finally give him a chance, to let him in, to truly help him, and his body won’t process it.  He thinks he might be past a point of exhaustion where this won’t start effecting him until after he’s slept, though he can’t imagine how that might be possible, not now, not when there’s so much to do, so many to mourn.

 

He remembers halfway to his office.  “Shit,” he says, turning back for his phone and dialing Desmond.  It goes to voicemail twice before Q starts to panic, and he locks himself in his office, pacing as he waits, and waits, and—

 

“Rowan?” Desmond says, his voice wavering and uncertain.

 

“What happened?  Is she okay?” Q asks.

 

“No,” Desmond says, and Q hits the floor, knees crashing against the concrete, “She’s—she’s dead.”

 

Q shatters.

 

——

 

Eve can’t find him.  She’s been running through the halls of MI-6, swallowing back every tear that threatens to break, and she can’t find Q.  When she finally circles back around to his branch, it finally occurs to her, his office, and she sprints over, heels snapping across the ground as she tries to throw open the door and almost crashes into it.

 

“No,” she hears Q mumble from inside.

 

She forces her jaw to stop quivering so she can hold her eye to the biometric scanner, finally gets the door open, and careens to a halt.  Q is folded over, chest pressed against his knees and head bent in, arms curled around so his fingers are fisted in his hair.

 

“Go away,” he sobs.

 

“Q,” Eve says slowly, coming forward, “I’m so sorry.  They told me you were the one to receive the news.  They’re—they’re on their way to get them now.”  Her voice wavers, and she sinks to her knees next to Q, reaching for him.

 

Q’s whole body tenses when she touches him, and comes exploding apart in a low, awful noise—like an animal trapped, looking death in the face.  “Q,” she says because this doesn’t fit.  She’s never seen this much in him, and it’s—wrong.  “Q,” she says again, her hands firmer on him, “What happened?”

 

His next inhale is messy, and it sounds like he’s choking before it comes rocketing out again, ripping another traitorous sob from him.  Eve swallows past the building sorrow in her and wraps her arms around Q, hauling him upright.  “No,” he gasps, trying to push away from her.

 

“Q,” she says sternly, gripping his shoulders and holding him still, “Tell me what happened.  Is someone hurt?”  He finally lifts his gaze to hers, and Eve knows, with startling clarity, that this isn’t about M, isn’t about MI-6 at all.  “Who is it?” she asks, and Q falls apart again, slumping forward as another noise forces its way out, scrapes raw at Eve.

 

She draws Q against her, holding him tightly, and she expects something, anything, but he’s too spent, marrow sucked dry out of his bones.  He quiets slowly, hiccupping into something softer as the minutes tick by, as his body gives up, exhausts itself past functioning.  Only then does he whisper, “My mum is dead.”

 

It snaps whatever control Eve has left.  She’s met Q’s mum, during one of their family brunches when it had been hosted at Desmond’s house, and he’d asked Q to invite the woman that was always answering his door.  She’d laughed at this description—it wasn’t common for her to stay over at his, but one of his brothers always seemed to be there in the morning when she did.  She’d been taken immediately by his mum, commanding her four boys with an ease that Eve hoped she would have someday.  It had been the first time she’d seen all four brothers in the same room, too, and Q was—different, less calm.

 

She mourns the death of her and M while she lets Q anchor to her, cries quietly against his hair as he closes his eyes and lets it swallow him whole.

 

——

 

Four days later, after everything, James returns to MI-6 and goes down to Q branch with the intent of giving his quartermaster a little shit for passing him off to R.  When he steps in, confusion works its way into his features when he finds his desk empty.  R looks up at his approach, and sighs, gaining his attention.

 

“He’s out,” R says, “Can I help you?”

 

“Out where?” James asks, allowing a small frown.

 

R doesn’t respond at first, perhaps judging how much he should trust him, but he finally says, “On bereavement.”

 

James blinks once to show his disbelief.  “For M?” he asks.

 

R shakes his head, beginning to turn back to his work when James continues walking, laying the tips of his fingers against Q’s desk, looking down at his closed laptop.  “His mum,” R says abruptly, and James’s exhale is silent but heavy, his shoulders dropping an inch.

 

He knows, intimately, the kind of darkness that opens.

 

“Any idea on Eve’s location?” he asks when he turns.

 

R’s gaze snaps back to his laptop, and he has an answer for him in under four seconds.  James thanks him, which leaves him in enough shock that he’s grinning again when he leaves.  He finds Eve at her desk outside Mallory’s office, her back to the door and phone at her ear.

 

James stops before her, leaning his hip against her desk as he listens to her.  “Yes, of course,” she says, “I’ll swing by with dinner later.  Sam’s out late with his friends anyway.”  She laughs softly at whatever response she receives, and says, “Don’t be daft, I know what whiskey you like.  Want me to pick up an expensive brand?”  Her laugh gets louder, and James’s curiosity almost gets the better of him, but he waits it out.  Eve finally seems to notice him, or her conversation is nearly over because she turns and flashes him a smile before she says, “Q, darling, I’ve got to jet.  There’s a bulldog looming at my desk.”  James shakes his head once.  “Yes, that one,” she says, “Okay, curry and whiskey, you’ve got it.  Please do drink something herbal rather than vodka before I get there.”  She hangs up, exhales, and says, “Yes, James?”

 

“You’re seeing Q after work?” he asks.

 

“I am,” Eve says, “Friends and all.”

 

“R told me.”

 

Eve’s expression falters for a second before she smiles again, and it barely reaches her mouth, let alone her eyes.  “Did he now?” she says, “That was kind of him, throwing out personal information to just anyone.”

 

“Just anyone?” James repeats.

 

“It’s hardly as if you know him,” Eve snaps, her false smile disappearing, “What do you want?”

 

“Is it that bad?” James asks.

 

Eve inhales, turning her head away, composing herself before she straightens, dashing a finger over the trackpad of her laptop to wake it.  “He’ll be back next week,” she says shortly.

 

“Duly noted,” James says, and leaves it at that.

 

It doesn’t take long to snoop enough to find a way he might help.  It’s rather easy, actually, when he catches Nala alone in the kitchen, methodically washing out Q’s scrabble mug.  “Thought the boss was out on vacation,” James says as he comes in, nodding to the mug.

 

“Vacation,” Nala repeats, “That’s cute.”

 

“Your quartermaster has had quite the effect on his branch.”

 

“Because I don’t find your charm—well, charming?” Nala says, shaking the mug to get the remaining water out of it before she dries it off, “What can I help you with, 007?”

 

“Well,” James says, “This could go either one of two ways.”

 

“If you’re about to proposition me, know that I’ve already filed a sexual harassment claim against 005, and I have no qualms about doing it to you, as well.”

 

“Ah,” James brightens, “That explains why he’s been brooding.”

 

“Q’s pissed off at him, as well, but he handles it with bureaucracy, the asshole,” Nala grumbles.  James chuckles, leaning back against the counter as he folds his arms across his chest.  “Alright,” she says, “What?”

 

“Promise you won’t tell?”  He quirks an eyebrow enticingly at her, though his expression breaks when she lifts a knife in his direction.

 

“He reads,” she says, and it catches James off guard for a moment before he nods, straightening.  Nala narrows her eyes at him, holding his gaze, before she holds out the mug and says, “He subtly didn’t ask R to bring this by.”

 

“Thank you, Nala,” he says sincerely, taking the offered mug, “Do tell R I apologize that he won’t be able to see his boss in pajamas.”

 

“Ha,” Nala snorts, “Q’s already tried that angle.  They went out to dinner and everything.”

 

“Interesting,” James says, turning toward the exit, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“Bond,” Nala says sharply as he’s opening the door, and he doesn’t turn, merely waits, “If you hurt him, he’ll be the least of your worries.”

 

While he would normally scoff at someone trying to warn him off their friend, he knows that this is a threat the entire branch would carry out without a second thought.  “I don’t fathom anything less,” he says honestly.

 

He’s currently off active duty, awaiting the new M to clear him, who listed psychological trauma as his reasoning.  Regardless of his decision, it gives James time he might not have had otherwise.  Admittedly, he’s not quite sure what this is, why he’s currently in a local bookstore, browsing the shelves with a scrabble mug sitting in his passenger seat, but he’s curious to see where it leads him.

 

He’s really only worked with Q for a month, barely, but two clues draw him to the science fiction section—one, he recognized the Star Trek decal on the back of his laptop; two, he looks like a bloody fucking nerd.  The man that owns the shop finds him here, and somehow, steers him away after he’s heard these two clues and over to a new release, something thick and bizarre looking.

 

“Promise,” he says, lifting the book from the shelf, “I was going to buy a copy for this guy I’m seeing, and he’s a major nerd, as well.  Named his cats after long dead authors.”

 

“How appalling,” James quips, opening to read the summary on the inside of the jacket, “Were they science fiction authors?”

 

“Surprisingly, no,” the owner says, “A poet and an Irishman.”

 

“Better,” James says, “I’ll take this.”

 

His next stop is at his favorite market, where he browses the herbal teas until he settles on something absolutely terrible sounding that looks like it’s just a gathering of dried berries and twigs.  James calls in on his way to—somewhere, he hopes.

 

“R speaking,” R answers, “How can I assist?”

 

“R, it’s Bond,” James says, “Any chance you’d be willing to divulge where our quartermaster lives?”

 

“Probably not,” R says, “Why are you calling me for this?”

 

“Eve has a short temper today,” James says, “You’re his friend?”

 

“Sure,” R says, “Are you going to be obnoxious?”  James almost laughs.  He simply adores what Q has done with his branch, how solidly he’s chosen in his second and third.  The ones before used to pale every time he approached, and yet, these two mirror Q’s fierceness with ease.

 

“I’m not going to call on him at all, if that eases your mind.”

 

“Fine,” R gives him a long-suffering sigh, “The address has been sent to your car, rerouting now.  Nala said she gave you the mug.”

 

“Peace offering,” James says before he ends the call.

 

It all happens rather harmlessly.  James starts to recognize the route almost instantly, and, when he pulls up at Q’s building, is rather surprised to find it’s _his_ building.  “Oh,” he says without meaning to as he parks and climbs out.  This certainly makes for an interesting development.

 

He says hello to their doorman on his way in, receiving a courteous response before he collects his mail and heads upstairs.  James has been in enough elevators in his life, and nearly died in a few, that he loathes taking them when he doesn’t have to.  Taking the stairs also allows him to peer into each landing and decipher which is Q’s, though.

 

He recognizes Q’s touch on the third floor, the door subtly reinforced so that anyone else wouldn’t noticed.  He’s sure there’s more inside, and though he’s struck by an unwavering _want_ to see Q, he resigns himself to carefully setting his things just outside his door.  He sets the mug and box of tea on top of the book, lingers for half a breath, and then takes the stairs to the floor above, where his own flat is located.

 

James is no stranger to attraction, but he also quickly deciphers that it’s a little more than physical that’s drawing him to Q.  Once inside his flat, he sheds his jacket, pours a generous amount of scotch, and takes it onto the balcony, dropping his forearms to the railing.  He wonders if it’s just his voice keeping him company at odd hours, holding everything else at bay, or if he’s genuinely being pulled into his orbit.

 

James drains half his scotch, swallowing as he looks out at the city sprawled before him, and thinks of M.  If she had caught even the slightest notion of this, she would have had his head.

 

“I’m fine,” a voice drifts out into the night, and James looks down, toward its source, frowning when he finds Q out on his own balcony, structured diagonally from James’s so that he can see him clearly.  He’s in a pair of suspiciously tight black pants and an oversized sweatshirt, the hood drawn up against the chill though his feet are bare, toes curling around the edge of his chair, knees drawn in against him.

 

“Connor, I really don’t want to have this conversation right now,” he says, his voice clipping with anger, “I’m tired.  I just want to—not be here.”

 

James frowns.  Q’s free hand is curled around a mug of some kind, and he can’t identify from here if it’s tea or alcohol.  “Connor—just— _stop_.”  Q’s next exhale shakes, and James tips back the rest of his scotch.  He starts to turn when there’s a soft crash, and he looks down and over to find Q’s mug in pieces on the balcony, his shoulders shaking as he buries his face against his thighs.

 

James closes his eyes and waits.  He listens to his breaths get louder, listens to him lose control, and waits while he struggles to grasp onto it again, struggles to find a shred of something normal.  “Fuck,” he finally hears, and he opens his eyes again, finds Q jerking out of his chair and kneeling to clean up his mug.

 

James leans over the railing, and calls out, “Neighbors, it seems.”

 

Q’s shoulders hitch up toward his ears as he straightens and spins, looking up sharply.  Even from the distance, James can see how awful sleep has been to him.  “007?” Q says incredulously.

 

“Imagine my surprise,” James says, “Come out for a drink, and here’s my quartermaster, smashing perfectly innocent porcelain.”

 

“You live in this building?” Q asks, not quite catching up.

 

“Since my resurrection,” James confirms, “And you?”

 

“Since I was hired.”

 

“A good first paycheck choice.”

 

“And what was yours?”

 

James smirks at him.  “I was too young to notice it when they came knocking.”

 

“Orphans,” Q says, “They make the best recruits.”

 

“You sound like M,” James muses.

 

“I know,” Q says, “That was her only clue when I received your first assignment.”

 

“How the tides have turned,” James says, straightening, “Out of curiosity, what is your favorite whiskey?”

 

“Moneypenny,” Q mutters, shaking his head, “You can go ahead and tell her I ran out of vodka yesterday.”

 

And then he’s gone, striding back into his flat, and James is left grinning at London.

 

——

 

When Eve arrives later that night, she approaches Q’s door slowly, looking down at the items sitting outside his flat.  It would be strange if not for the mug, and so she knows someone from the branch brought it over, but the book and tea leave her stymied.  She checked in on both R and Nala before she left, and neither had been outside of the office all day.

 

She retrieves them after she knocks, and Q answers looking absolutely miserable.  “Did someone stop by earlier?” she asks, holding out the items in question, “These were here.”

 

Q blinks at them, slowly taking them.  “R asked if I wanted the scrabble mug,” Q admits, “But I told him not to bother.”

 

“He’s been there all day.”

 

“Nala?” Q asks, looking up at her.

 

“Same,” Eve says, shaking her head.

 

Q sighs, “If I have a stalker, I’m not moving.”

 

“That’s helpful,” Eve says, coming in as Q walks away, “How are you?”

 

“I absolutely fucking loathe that question,” Q snarls.

 

“Okay,” Eve says, “I brought whiskey.”

 

“I’m all done,” Q mutters, dropping onto his sofa.

 

Though it goes against her better judgment, Eve lets Q drink himself stupid after he wolfs down his curry.  He’s starting to fall asleep when she finally takes the bottle from him, capping it and helping him to his feet.  “Come on,” she says, leading him toward his room, “Time to sleep this off.  I’ll be on the sofa.”

 

“You’re a saint, Eve,” Q slurs, leaning into her.

 

Eve puts him to bed, stays up a while to check on him periodically, and finally crashes around three.

 

In the morning, Q groans awake, stumbles blindly into the bathroom, and kicks the door shut before he starts puking.  Thankfully, Eve is still asleep when he exits, toothbrush in hand and making for the kettle.  He fills it, puts it on, and goes to hunt down his glasses.  Somehow, he manages to get to it before it makes too much noise, shuffles past Eve, picking up the strange book on his way, and goes out onto the balcony to curl up under the rising sun.

 

He lets himself get lost in the novel, something called _The Bone Clocks_ , and it’s better than he’s expecting, enough so that he almost doesn’t hear the soft greeting from above.  He does, however, register a voice, and he peers up, squinting.  “Good morning, 007,” Q mutters before turning his attention back to his book.

 

“What are you reading?” James asks leisurely.

 

“It appears I have an admirer,” Q says dryly, “Someone left words and tea at my door.”

 

“How thoughtful.  Is it good?”

 

“Wonderful.”  He reaches for his tea and promptly frowns at his empty mug.

 

“Treason,” James seethes from above.

 

“Honestly,” Q says, “Someone drank my tea, the nerve of them.”

 

James’s smile is wider than he likes to admit.  “Shall I make you another?” he offers.

 

Q looks up at him, quirking an eyebrow.  “If you can figure out how to get inside, be my guest.”

 

He should have fucking _known_.

 

James Bond shrugs one shoulder and starts bloody scaling down from his balcony to Q’s.  “Foul play,” Q says when he drops onto the balcony, “And you’re barefoot.  Poor decision.”

 

James merely plucks the empty mug from his hand and steps inside, inhaling.  It smells like sandalwood and leftover curry with a hint of something vanilla, chased by the floral arrangement sitting on a small end table near the balcony.  There are a few framed posters— _Predator_ and _The Martian_ he recognizes, but not the third, and thus files it away to ask after later—a sleeping Eve on the sofa, and _things_ strewn about everywhere, whether it’s books or scrap parts, it’s so much of Q’s soul that James feels like he’s intruding.

 

He sets about making tea, brews coffee for himself, and pads back out to deliver both mugs.  “Oh,” Q says when he sips, “Even if it turns out to be a stalker, they can stay.  This is absurdly good.”

 

James smirks into his mug.  They sit in companionable silence for a while, Q reading and James watching the sun come up in earnest.  Eventually, Q holds out his mug without looking up and says, “While you’re here.”

 

“Are you hungry at all?” James asks, and Q frowns at his book before finally meeting his gaze.

 

“Who told you?” he asks, his brows drawing together in anger.

 

“That’s not why I’m here,” James says.

 

“I don’t need your fucking pity, 007,” Q snaps.

 

“Do you honestly think it’s something I’m offering?” James returns, ice framing the edges of his voice, “My omelets are worthy of a fucking medal.”

 

Q’s mouth twitches.  James stands, taking his mug.  “Don’t be a child,” Q murmurs as he turns back to his book.

 

James barks out a short laugh.  “Spots,” he reminds before returning to Q’s flat.

 

Eve wakes to the skillet, looking over at him in sheer confusion before she groans and says, “This doesn’t bode well.”

 

“Nala had something similar to say,” James admits, “And yet.”

 

“Here you are,” Eve finishes, getting up and stretching before she comes over.  “Don’t do this to him.  Not now.”

 

“What, feed him?” James says, turning the bacon.

 

“James,” Eve says, leaning against the counter, “I care about him.”

 

“I understand,” James says, “But I happen to think he’s a little more durable than you all seem to believe.”

 

“The strongest will cannot withstand you,” Eve says, “So keep it in check.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” James says tiredly.

 

“All I ask,” Eve says, pushing away from the counter, “is a little respect.”

 

“That’s reasonable,” James agrees.

 

“I don’t think you know the meaning of that word,” Eve says even as she walks away, “But look it up and live by it if you’re going to be doing something you really shouldn’t.”  Eve makes it to the balcony before it occurs to her, and she turns, her mouth opening in surprise as she looks at James, in his slacks and shirt, barefoot in Q’s kitchen.  “It was you,” she says, and James doesn’t meet her gaze, though he sees her smile, “Words and tea.  Good choice.”

 

They eat out on the balcony, Q folding his legs beneath him and bickering with James about the worthiness of his omelet while Eve just watches on warily.  She doesn’t think Q realizes what’s happening, and she hopes it isn’t too late when he finally does.

 

——

 

Three weeks pass before Q even considers leaving his flat except for work and necessities.  Aidan’s been understanding, encouraging him to stay in and relax, even, but he’s been staring at the ceiling of his bedroom for three nights now, and he needs out, so he sends him a middle of the night text and turns over again.

 

He’s halfway to work, on the tube, when his phone vibrates, and he smiles for the first time since his mum passed when he reads Aidan’s response,  _I kept dreaming about you last night.  I’m feeling Italian._

 

 _Yes, pasta_ , Q quickly types back,  _And wine._

 

_We speak similar languages._

 

Q stifles a laugh and tucks his phone away again.  He makes it to his stop in good time, walks the last mile to MI-6 with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, and only gives up when he’s approaching an unremarkable door stationed against a solid wall.  Ever since Skyfall, they’ve taken new measures.  After moving their entire operation, and then spending three miserable weeks having to wait for a ferry to bring them back and forth, their entrance was finally built, a long, underwater tunnel leading up into a terrifyingly sterile-looking room.  There’s no service of any kind in the tunnel, though, and so Q dashes out a reply,  _I miss you_ , before stepping forward, flattening one hand against the door, which only signals the first lock.  It takes a biometric scan of his retina and, because they’re still in the 19th fucking century, a triple knock.

 

The door is finally opened and Q blatantly refuses to make eye contact with the guard as he strides in.  He honestly can’t believe they’re still bloody knocking on doors to signal that it’s truly them, unharmed.

 

And then, his phone buzzes.

 

Q stops immediately, looking down at his jacket pocket.  He’s not far enough that the guard doesn’t hear it, and then Q’s turning to find one of  _his_  stunning guns pointed at him.

 

“Honestly,” Q mutters, left hand darting up to tap the bud hidden in his ear.  “R?”

 

“Sir?” R’s voice instantly echoes back, and then confusion leaks into his voice, “Where are you?”

 

“The tunnel,” Q says, “Can you see me?”

 

“Of course not, you’re—holy shit.”

 

“Shoot me with that, and you’ll have worse problems than me,” Q says to the guard before he turns and runs.  Luckily, his threat is not taken lightly, and he keeps talking as he’s running, messenger bag slamming against his thighs, “Start looking.  Now.”

 

“All hands on deck!” R calls, “Someone’s inside.”

 

“R,” Q says, waiting for his attention to return, “Flood the branch.”

 

“Anywhere else?” he asks, fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm.

 

“The whole bloody floor, why not.  Tell M.  I’m on my way.”

 

The last time he ran a mile, he was doing his evals for MI-6, and he’s out of breath long before he reaches the door at the end of the tunnel, struggling to regain control of it as he scans himself in, willing the locks to move faster.

 

Of all people, James is waiting on the other side of the door for him.

 

“Q branch is a warzone right now,” James says conversationally as Q careens to a halt, blinks at him, and keeps going.

 

“Precisely,” he says, not bothering to look over when James falls into quick step beside him, “The whole level should be.”

 

“It is,” comes the reply, “Just making sure you’re aware, though I admit, I would be hard-pressed to believe they would do it without your say so.”

 

“Get to the point, 007,” Q says as he punches his code into the elevator, turning.

 

He catches a minute twitch in James’s hard expression as the doors slide open, but then he marches past him and says, “Coming, Q?”

 

“Why are you such a nuisance?” Q mutters as he steps in after him, lifting a hand to the scanner to grant him access to his level.

 

“M is busy,” James muses, “And Eve is handling a crisis.”

 

“And thus,” Q supplies, though he doesn’t continue when the doors open again into a sublevel.  James immediately gravitates toward the lab door, but one quick tug at his elbow from Q, and he’s sighing resentfully, following his quartermaster down the hall, which is flooded with red light.

 

Inside, the branch is alive and buzzing.  Q starts collecting information as soon as he walks in, minions darting over and away before he even makes it to his desk, and then he’s left to upend his person upon his station, looking around with a furrowed brow because James has disappeared.  He shrugs when he can’t find him, taps into their secure network, and starts swearing.

 

“Exactly,” R says as he comes up, hair falling out of its perfect part and into his eyes.  Q watches him rake a hand nervously through it, shoving it back.

 

“R,” he says calmly, “Don’t lose your head on me now.”

 

“ _Q_ ,” R says imploringly, “They’re copying  _everything_.”

 

“What the fuck did you just say?” Q growls, but R knows better than to respond.

 

Q dives in, not bothering to take a seat as he starts hacking into his own systems, which takes about four seconds, all of his firewalls inexplicably turned _off,_ and if that isn’t worrying enough, then there’s plenty more to stress him out as he moves about further.

 

“How the fuck did this happen?” Q shouts to no one in particular, starting to reach blindly for his bag.  A hand brushes along his, pressing his wireless headphones into his hand, and Q just takes them, pressing one into his left ear.  A cup of herbal tea has appeared at his elbow, and Q takes a large sip of it, humming at the flavor, which hints at cinnamon and, if he’s not mistaken, apple.

 

He steps back only to grab his laptop, pull up a quick program, and start streaming music into his right ear while he doles out commands, not waiting for confirmations through his left.

 

Q looks up, once, and sees an empty desk near the back of the room, and his fingers freeze above his laptop, jarring a wicked piece of code to a halt.  “R,” he says quickly, not looking over toward his second.

 

“Sir?” R says distractedly.

 

“Where’s Jared?”

 

Q can feel R’s attention drift as he turns to look at Jared’s empty desk, and when a response doesn’t come quick enough, Q shifts his gaze toward the double oh agent that has been prowling around his station.  “Find him,” he says, and James nods once before jogging toward the doors.

 

When he runs out of tea and it isn’t magically refilled, Q considers the fact that James may have gotten him the first cup, not R, and that distracts him for half a second before the virus sweeping through MI-6’s systems starts to fight back in earnest.  That’s about when M comes in, as well.

 

He doesn’t speak as he strides across the room, nor does he speak when he arrives at Q’s desk; rather, he watches Q work, gaze shifting from Q to his monitors behind him, which displays, in real time, everything he’s doing.

 

“How bad is it?” he asks finally.

 

“Q,” James says into his left ear.

 

Q lifts one finger from his keyboard, enough that M sees it, and responds, “007.”

 

“He’s not in the building.”

 

“Thermal readings?”

 

“He’s not in the blood building, Q.”

 

Q makes an aborted noise, steps to the side, and pulls up a command prompt on his laptop, throwing a few lines of code at it, and then he pauses, watching the feed come up.  “Bad,” he throws over his shoulder in M’s direction, “Worse than I’d care to admit.”

 

“Is it—” M cuts himself off when Q’s gaze snaps up, quickly scanning the room.

 

“Bond,” he says shortly, “Come back.”

 

“I’m going to search the perimeter,” James says instead, “He might have—”

 

“He’s in Q branch,” Q says softly, eyes still sweeping around the room, “M is in here, and more than half of my staff.”

 

“Mother—”

 

“Precisely,” Q interrupts him, “Hurry now.”

 

“Q,” M says quietly, “Where?”

 

“Hang on,” Q says, searching with his right hand while he reaches with his left.  And then, he finds him.  “Shit,” Q says, stepping over to his main computer and digging in deep, pulling up a program he’s been working on.  His branch teeters dangerously into a silence disrupted only by the thrumming energy of the instruments they’re using.

 

“Q,” M says suddenly, and Q shakes his head once, pulling his hands up an inch from his keys.

 

“Step away, quartermaster,” Jared’s voice says from behind him.

 

“I think you’ll find,” Q begins, tapping one key before he turns, arms coming up, “that this is not in your best interest.”

 

“Destabilization in ninety seconds,” a voice reports into his left ear.

 

Jared jerks the gun in his hand toward Q’s right ear.  “No distractions,” he says, and Q nods once, reaching up to take the wireless headphone out.  Jared smirks and points to the left.  “No help, either,” he adds.

 

“Of course,” Q says, taking the earbud out, as well, even as he starts mentally counting, “I’m sure we can resolve this.”

 

“Oh, resolution,” Jared says, “That’s a bit tedious.”

 

“This can’t be about the incident with 002, can it?” Q says, “That seems a bit base.”

 

Jared sneers.  “You truly believe you have all the power, don’t you?” he says, stepping closer.  Q straightens a little, gaze flicking down to the gun and back up at Jared.  He refrains from exhaling relief—it’s one of his weapons.  “You sit there, observing the world’s security every day, and you think you’re so much better than us.”

 

The door shushes open, admitting James, who is already poised to kill.

 

“No need, 007,” Q says sharply, “We’ve got this quite sorted.”

 

“See,” Jared says, and the edge of the gun presses against Q’s jaw.  “We’ve got this quite sorted,” he mimics Q’s voice in a surprisingly well done rendition.  “You’re so fucking high, aren’t you?” Jared says, anger twisting his features, “When I’m through with you, you’ll just be an orphan clinging to the last threads of his miserable life, Ro—”

 

“That’s quite enough,” Q snaps, taking one step forward.  Jared becomes all sharp edges, digging the weapon into Q’s cheek.  Q lets his voice drop to a whisper, “Just because you found my name does not give you the right to use it.”

 

Jared barks a laugh, shifts his finger toward the trigger, and Q says, “Confirmed.  Destabilize.”  Jared adjusts his aim and takes the shot.

 

Q has one moment of blinding terror before Jared’s letting out a vicious noise, and then he throws one of his forearms up, catching Jared in the jaw.  He fights like his brothers trained him to, deflecting blows and delivering his own until Jared gets his footing, and he hits Q so hard, he staggers back, slamming into his desk.

 

James vaults over the desk at full tilt, legs stretching out to crash into Jared’s chest.  They go down,  _brawling_ , as Q scrambles for one of his drawers, yanks it open, and says, “ _Bond_.”

 

James twists, delivering a kick that cracks something, and rolls out of the way as Q lifts a weaponized syringe and says, “This will burn your insides until you are _begging_  us to kill you.”

 

Jared hears the truth in Q’s voice, and knows regardless.  It was one of the first projects he contributed to.  He swallows once as he rolls onto his back and says, “How did you do it?”

 

Q shakes his head.  “I designed them,” he says, “I will not let them be used against me.”  James gets up, hauls Jared to his feet, and pauses when he looks to Q, who lowers the syringe, his expression unreadable.  “Perhaps you should have thought your assassination all the way through,” Q says, starts to turn, and then adds, “Sorry, I forgot.  You were never good at the details.  Have fun in the underground,  _asshole_.”

 

“The underground?” Jared splutters, gaze snapping over to M, “You can’t—”

 

“Imprison you for threatening a high-level employee of MI-6?  Oh, I can,” M says, “007.”

 

“With pleasure, sir,” James says, grasping Jared by the shoulder and steering him out.

 

No one moves until they’ve left the branch, and then Q immediately lifts the lockdown before he braces his hands against his desk, head dipping down between his shoulders as he tries to inhale slowly.  “Q?” R says uncertainly, not moving, “Are you okay?”

 

Q allows himself three full seconds before he nods once and straightens.  “Caffeine.  That new black one,” he says, and R smiles widely, immediately moving to fill Q’s mug, “Please and thank you.  The rest of you,” he addresses the branch, “Please clean this up.  Retrieve our files, destroy Jared’s virus, and send me any and all breaches in our security that you can find, no matter how small.  All queries should be directed to your team lead.”

 

He can see Eve coming through the camera viewing the hallway, and the doors open as R places his scrabble mug down.  “Anything else?” R asks.

 

“Food,” Q says, “My treat.  Can you have Nala collect orders, and then take first position?”

 

“Absolutely,” R says, already turning away, “Eve!”

 

“You brilliant bastard,” Eve says, coming straight for Q, “How did you do it?”

 

“Destabilization program,” Q says, reaching for his chair and dropping into it, “There’s a microchip in every gun that links it back to MI-6.  Untraceable, of course.”

 

“Except through you,” Eve says, coming around and stepping inside, “Q.”

 

“That was exhausting,” Q admits.

 

“Hug me, you idiot,” Eve says, already pulling him upright.  Q allows this small moment, tucking his face away in Eve’s neck and closing his eyes as she squeezes him tightly.  “Don’t ever do that again,” she whispers.

 

“I’ll do my level best,” Q murmurs.

 

——

 

Of course— _of fucking course_ —his life would be threatened today, of all days.

 

After—after the branch pulls themselves back together, stitching up their network until Q can attack it later; after they break for food at some odd hour, Nala absolutely demanding that they all pile into a circle, and from somewhere unbeknownst to any of them, she ropes R into gathering pillows, which they all sit on, eating Chinese straight out of the containers; after Q has suffered not one, but two hugs, from Nala and R, and Keira, though she does it quickly and with only one arm, sneaking away after—after it all, Q quietly takes his scrabble mug down the hall to his lab, something herbal because that new one is _strong_ , shucks off his cardigan, and starts taking apart the Aston Martin.

 

There is actually something wrong with it, something he’s been meaning to look at it, but he’s daft if he thinks that’s why he’s suddenly surrounded by pieces of the car.

 

James makes a mournful sound when he finds him.

 

“Q,” he says quietly, tapping his elegant shoe against Q’s Converse, “Are you hiding?”

 

Q’s hand darts out from underneath the car, index finger pointing toward a tool box.  “Find me something useful, will you?”

 

James turns without a thought, dropping to one knee as he rifles around and finally comes up with a wrench, handing it over.  He gets one flash of ink dark skin before Q’s arm is gone, and he blinks.

 

“And here I thought you were an absolute professional,” James muses, leaning back into his heel.

 

“Don’t sit like that, your knees are unforgiving,” Q snaps harmlessly at him, and James carefully eases onto his bottom, drawing his legs into a fold.  He can see Q a little better from this low, noticing his change of clothes, an old shirt replacing today’s dark teal button-up.

 

“Maroon and teal don’t clash well,” James informs him as he sees them sitting in a heap nearby.

 

“I was distracted,” Q admits from under the car, arm twisted up inside its innards.  He grunts, yanking, and something finally comes loose.  “Oh, bugger.”

 

“You’ve got quite a foul mouth, too,” James says, watching him glare at the underbelly.

 

Q doesn’t respond, instead continues swearing at the car as he fights with the original problem, an alternator belt that had slipped off one of its attachments and was making the car rattle something awful, though really, it was just a precursor to something worse.  James watches him work, content to spend a few quiet moments with him after witnessing him nearly take a bullet to the head.

 

“Are you just going to sit there?” Q asks some time later, as he’s starting to finish up.

 

“Any particular flavor?” James asks, already pushing up to his feet.

 

Q smiles at the engine and says, “Just green.  I’m tired.”  It feels strange to admit that, but really, this whole scenario feels strange, with James sitting cross-legged on the floor, not speaking, but it’s comfortable at the same time, the presence of another person helping to ground Q.

 

When he hears the water starting to boil over by his desk, Q pushes out from under the car, rolling his eyes at the sheer amount of grease he’s managed to smear across his shirt and arms.  “There’s a bit on your cheek, too,” James says.

 

Q looks up and over at him, finds him leaning against a bookshelf, his gaze soft and less reserved than usual.  “Of course there is,” Q says, not falling into the temptation to try to rub it away.  Instead, he gets to his feet, groaning quietly when his back protests.  He stretches, arms reaching up high and tipping to either side.

 

James watches him with growing curiosity, eyes darting from his tattooed left arm to the sliver of skin that appears above his waistline as his shirt hikes up.  It’s old and clearly well loved, and James can identify it as a _Star Wars_ logo, if he squints.

 

“Any idea the time?” Q asks, turning until he spots his clothes, going over to bend and dig out his watch.  “Shit,” he says, and James quirks an eyebrow just before the water starts pouring into his mug.  He hunts down a bag, eavesdropping as Q lifts a phone to his ear.  “Oh, come on,” he mutters after it clearly goes to voicemail, and James is surprised when he dials again.  “Aidan,” he sighs when the other person picks up.  Q winces at whatever their response is before he turns his back to James.  “I’m sorry,” Q says quickly, “Someone—there was a—” he breaks off in frustration, and James recognizes this call immediately—someone who doesn’t know what Q does for a living.

 

Q’s fingers muck up his hair before he says, “Yes, I’m at work.  Something happened.  I had to stay and clean it up.  I don’t—” he’s cut off, and his shoulders climb up toward his ears.  “Are you still free?”

 

James decides he’s had enough watching him be berated when Q’s hand drops down by his side, unmoving.  He strides quickly across the large lab, curls a hand around Q’s elbow, and presses the mug into his hands when he turns.  Q’s smile is small but there when he looks up at James and says, “Thank you.”

 

He regrets his words as the person on the other line gets angrier, and Q closes his eyes, lifting the mug to sip at it.  It’s still too hot, and he makes a face, mouth opening to release some of the heat.  James waits, and then, finally, Q’s had enough, too.  “I said I was sorry,” he says, the edges of his voice sharpening, “My job is non-negotiable.  If something comes up, I have to be here to handle it.  Are you free or not?”  The answer is a clear no, but Q still pushes onward, “Tomorrow night?  Barring any terrorist attacks, I should be—available,” Q falters, and James can see him mentally trying to figure out the date.  “Hang on,” Q says before opening his eyes and frowning at James, “Why am I forgetting where you are?”

 

James grins at him.  “Tomorrow night, darling,” he says, “Flight to Greece.”

 

“Recon first?”  When James nods, Q goes back to _Aidan_ , and James decidedly is not a fan as he clearly has an issue with Q checking his schedule against someone else’s.  “I have clients that require—handling,” Q settles on, daring James to retaliate with his vicious expression.  James just swallows a laugh.

 

The conversation ends on a higher note than it began, though Q still looks bitter when he says, “Good grief, you would think I was back in fucking—primary school.”

 

He walks away, sipping his tea in earnest now as he goes over to his desk.  “How old were you when you graduated?” James asks, turning as he settles his hands in his pockets.

 

“Which one?” Q asks distractedly.

 

“High school,” James says.

 

“13,” Q says, “I—” he breaks off, his frown deepening as he starts searching through his desk one-handed.  Eventually, he has the good sense to put down his mug, and then he finds the keys to the Aston Martin fairly quickly.

 

“All this time,” James says, watching in disbelief as Q lifts his mug and comes back around the desk.

 

“They’re usually locked up,” Q says before tossing the keys in James’s direction, “Against my better judgement, I’m asking a favor.”  James catches the keys, looking over at Q in bewilderment.  “Take her for a spin, will you, and let me know if she sounds even remotely awful or not?”

 

And then he’s gone, disappearing out of the lab in his shirt and his tattoos and his bloodshot eyes, and James’s grin is lethal.

 

——

 

James puts almost more effort into not losing his second handprint-modified Walther as he does in securing his target.  Greece is decidedly not as warm as he would like in September, but he still manages to find time to disappear after he’s blown up half a building, killed three guards—in  _self defense_ , he says when Q complains—and ferried the target off on the appropriate private jet England-bound.  If the seat his target sits in starts to soak through with blood, well, that’s not his problem.

 

James’s earbud is stashed in his shirt pocket, which is carefully folded beside him, and he’s lying out on a stretch of private beach, arms folded beneath his head, and eyes closed when something starts vibrating.  James’s smirk grows as it continues vibrating until it’s starting to sound a little insistent, and a little like Q snapping half-formed profanities at him, so James rolls onto his side and plucks the earbud out of his pocket, tucking it into his ear.

 

“Yes?” he says.

 

“Where the fuck are you?” Q growls.  James lifts his wrist, checks his watch—it’s about two in the morning in London.

 

“Is your mug empty?” James asks in lieu of a response.

 

There’s a pause, and James imagines him looking around blearily before, “Fuck you.”

 

“It’s late,” James says, “Why are you still there?”

 

“Because you blew up half of a bloody fucking building, and then you—god, you’re such an asshole.”

 

“I purposefully missed all of the major organs.”

 

“Right because he definitely doesn’t need a— _Jesus_ , where even is that?” Q grumbles.

 

“Near your liver, I believe,” James says, “Pancreas, right?”

 

“How,” Q mutters, though it doesn’t lift in a question, “Well, that’s unpleasant.”

 

“I aimed before pulling the trigger,” James teases, if only to get a rise out of him.  He’s given up pretending he isn’t enjoying working with Q, who is leagues more fun than their last quartermaster.  The last one used to fuss endlessly about the missing equipment while Q just paints a colorful picture of what he’d like to do to every double oh that doesn’t bring back something in pristine condition.  Despite that, Q doesn’t rely on threats to maintain control of his department—though James thoroughly believes that many of them, and much of MI-6, fear him—but rather a quiet disappointment when something goes awry.  Quite frankly, the double ohs are the only ones that ever seem to get a rise out of him, and, even then, much of his reprimanding is done in the space the two of them occupy at the given moment.  James loathes to admit that he’s impressed by someone he once considered barely a teenager, and yet, here he is, drifting away from the sun and back to dreary London in the space of a breath.

 

“One would hope,” Q says offhandedly.

 

“What’s that typing I hear?” James asks, returning to Greece.

 

“Googling the effects of pancreas loss.  It’s dreadful.”

 

“Q,” James says cheerily, “Is that a note of delight I hear in your voice?”

 

“Suck a dick, 007.”

 

“Yours?” James offers.

 

“Sorry, taken,” Q says without missing a beat.

 

“Bugger,” James says, pushing upright, “By whom?”

 

“That,” Q snaps, “is none of your business.  Now, where the blazes are you?”

 

“Greece, darling.  Time for a swim.”

 

“Go play with a shark!” Q practically sings before the line goes dead, and James laughs outright, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability.   _God_ , he’s in trouble.

 

——

 

Q creates this magnificent grenade that James is just itching to get his hands on, and then he’s delivered his next assignment, in  _Ukraine_  of all places.  “Abuse this,” Q says, handing him a small box without looking up from signing a stack of papers, “And I will abuse you.”

 

“That sounds promising,” James quips, opening the box and groaning immediately.  “Q, you shouldn’t have.”

 

If Q’s mouth quirks into a lightning fast smile, no one is there but James to see it, and he’ll deny everything if anyone questions him on it.  He finishes off a last signature, straightens, and says, “Do bring everything back in one piece, please.”

 

“If that happens to occur,” James says as he sets the box down, leaning forward over Q’s desk, “Will I continue to receive such splendid equipment?”

 

“Your chances are higher,” Q admits, “Get.”

 

“No kiss goodbye?” James says, and fucking  _pouts_.  He’s given up caring, really, and if he’s going to fall for his quartermaster, then he’s going to do it with flare.

 

“Still taken,” Q says, putting his back to him.

 

James thinks about stabbing at that a little, bites it back instead, and leaves before Q realizes he’s gone.

 

——

 

Ukraine is horribly cold when he arrives, and much of the mission is spent trudging through a rain-sodden snow that turns into slush and ruins one of his favorite pairs of shoes.  For once, he spends most of his free time in his hotel room, content to collect intel beneath the comfort of expensive sheets while he sips black tea.

 

“What  _are_  you doing?” Q comes to life in his ear.

 

James grins, shifting so that he can lie back.

 

“It’s cold out,” he says.

 

“Oh please,” Q mutters, “You’re a double oh, for Christ’s sake.  Shouldn’t you be out there, tramping around,  _spying_ on people?”

 

“I used one of your doohickeys.”

 

Q positively howls.  James grins, downing the rest of his tea before he gets out of bed and goes over to peer out the window.  “That was for my benefit, I know,” Q says when he catches his breath, “But I really do appreciate the effort.”

 

“Enough careless age jokes have been made at your expense,” James says, finally spotting his target, “I thought I might even the score a little.”

 

“I am eternally grateful, 007,” Q says dryly, “Now, what, pray tell, are you doing?”

 

“Keep up, Q.  He’s had a long distance transmitter accidentally dropped into his pocket.”

 

Q is silent for a breath, and then he exclaims, “That is a  _prototype_ , James!”

 

“Is this a private line?” he asks because his first name catches him by surprise, though he’s not sure if it’s surprise at hearing it or how maddeningly delicious it sounds in Q’s voice.

 

“Do you even know how much that cost?”

 

“More than the Walther?”

 

“Child’s play,” Q seethes, “Bring that back, or I’ll expect your head in replacement.”

 

“The head?  So severe already?”

 

“Your right hand, then.  Start learning to shoot with your left.   _Shut up_.”

 

“It’s a pity, really, that you haven’t done your homework.”

 

“Oh, I—”

 

“He’s not interested in telling his wife about his endeavors,” James interrupts him, “Rather, his close friend and partner.”

 

“I don’t care who you have to sleep with—” Q catches on immediately, which just widens James’s grin, “—as long as you bring back the fucking prototype.”

 

“Do you kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Q growls before he hangs up.

 

James switches on the radio and listens in, moving only once he’s settled on a date and time where he’ll find the target alone and seduce him into revealing the location of a shipment and steal the prototype back.

 

——

 

Eve almost,  _almost_  manages to withhold her laugh when a package is sitting on her desk after she returns from lunch.  She has Indian wafting up through the takeaway bag, but she pauses to slice it open and promptly scares the woman waiting to meet with M when she sees what’s inside.

 

She takes the food and package down to Q, dumping the latter onto a report he’s reading while she makes for the sofa that Nala forced Q’s hand into obtaining.  She drops onto it, setting the Indian on the floor before she begins separating chopsticks.

 

“What is this?” Q asks, peering inside the package.

 

“You’re allotted three guesses on the sender,” Eve says, opening the bag so that the smell of curry wafts over to him.  Eventually, Q straightens, though it’s with a box of tea rather than in response to the food.

 

“Hibiscus, pineapple, peppermint, lemongrass, rose hips, and blackberry,” he reads off the side, his expression transforming into one of pure joy, “Hell, that sounds good.”

 

“Pairs well with curry, too, sounds like,” Eve says, watching him carefully.

 

“Is it yellow?” he asks, leaving the confines of his desk to walk past her toward the tea and coffee station a few of the minions finally put together.

 

“With extra vegetables,” Eve promises, “And chicken.”  Q whines at her, so Eve says, “You need protein.  You’re wasting away.  Don’t worry, there are chickpeas in there, too.”

 

“Heathen,” Q accuses.  Silence reigns, broken only by the usual babble of the branch until Q returns with his steaming scrabble mug and says, “James.”

 

“What gave it away?” Eve asks, handing over a container.

 

“The tea,” Q says, “He’s always refilling mine when he’s—being a nuisance.”

 

“I don’t think that’s the right word,” Eve says, lifting an eyebrow at him, “What else was in there?”

 

“A book and a plant.”

 

“Interesting choices.”

 

“David Mitchell,” Q says, “He saw me reading  _The Bone Clocks_  forever ago, and that’s one of his earlier works.  Also, it’s not the first plant.”

 

“Do tell,” Eve says, brightening.

 

“The, uh—” he pauses, trying to locate it, “The cypress.”  He points in a vague direction toward the back of the room.  Q’s been collecting plants in a spare corner, where he’s modified the lighting.  M tends to gravitate to it often, and so adding the cypress had only seemed natural, though it’s quite a bit larger than the others.

 

“He sent you a fucking tree from Greece?” Eve says, “Oh honey.”

 

“And?” Q says, “He blew up half a fucking building and nearly killed his target, he owed me a fucking tree, at the very least.”

 

Eve just shakes her head, wondering if he’ll ever catch on.

 

——

 

Q’s out to dinner with Aidan when he gets a text from Bill.   _Someone left a potted plant outside of Q branch._

 

He laughs softly, and is still grinning when Aidan returns from the bathroom.  “Something hilarious occur while I was in the loo?” Aidan asks, taking the seat opposite him.

 

Q shakes his head, sighing, though his grin is still intact.  “One of my clients likes to break his equipment on occasion,” he says, “There’s a mysterious plant outside of my office, so I’m assuming he’ll be a few pieces short when he returns.  Do you mind if I—” he trails off, fingers wrapped around his phone.

 

“Go ahead,” Aidan says, lifting his menu.

 

_Anything exotic?_

 

 _Hardly_ , Bill writes.

 

_Is there a tag?_

 

 _Sansevierie trifasciata.  That’s absurd._ Q laughs a little louder this time before stowing away his phone and returning his attention to his menu.

 

After dinner, they go for a short walk toward a local café, and Q orders something frothy and ridiculous if only to hear Aidan groan at him.  “You’re helpless,” he says, leaning into him as he orders something drastically normal.

 

Once they’re seated, Q says, “I used to work here, actually.”

 

“What?” Aidan says, latching onto this rare piece of insight as he looks around.  Q often regrets that he can’t tell him more, that he’s not sure whether or not he should trust him with more, that he’s nervous about Aidan knowing his name.

 

“When I was in school,” Q says, “I intended to save up to move out.”

 

“Intended?” Aidan echoes, “Where did the money go instead?”

 

“Tattoos,” Q says, “They’re addicting.”

 

“When was the last time you got one?” Aidan asks.

 

“Before my current job, actually,” Q says, frowning, “It’s been a few years.”

 

“Do you miss it?”

 

“The café?”

 

“The tattoos,” Aidan clarifies, “You have so many, I imagined it was an ongoing thing.”

 

“It is,” Q says, “Just—time got away from me.”

 

“No, you’re hopelessly in love with your job,” Aidan says, “You should take some time off.”

 

Q shrugs.  “I’ve got a lot going on.”

 

“A lot of excuses, yes,” Aidan says, “When was your last vacation?”

 

“Aidan—”

 

“Rowan,” he counters with, and Q withholds a flinch.  Undoubtedly, he’s not comfortable with Aidan knowing his name, and he wishes he could take it back.

 

Regardless, Aidan still sees something flicker across his face, and he starts to address it when Q says, “Are we going anywhere after this?”

 

Aidan sighs, but says, “Mine or yours?” with a note of hope in his voice.

 

“Yours,” Q says, “It’s closer.”

 

It’s not, but they both know how Q is when there’s someone trying to interrupt his mornings.  They’ve spent the night at his twice, and both had found Q leaving for work frustrated and disheveled.  The resulting conversation had not been fun, but necessary, though Q sees Aidan fight a frown now.  He had uttered a deadly line,  _I think I’m allowed to not be ready to stay over, considering it’s only been a few months_ , and Aidan had immediately called him out on not being ready to share his space.  Now, though, Aidan just nods and says, “Are you going to keep driving recklessly?”

 

“Listen,” Q says, allowing a grin to form, “I work with crazy people.”

 

“I think you’re one of the crazy people,” Aidan muses, so Q knocks their shoulders together.

 

——

 

Q comes home after a short debrief with M following a 21-hour hack that left his wrists aching to the smell of something positively  _delicious_  wafting out from under his door.  Really, he shouldn’t be surprised at what he finds, but he still opens the door with one hand, gun held aloft with the other.

 

“I’ve seen your scores,” James says evenly without turning around.

 

“You could at least trip the alarm next time,” Q says, flicking the safety on and stowing the gun back in his bag, “I thought you weren’t due back until the morning.”

 

“Finished early,” James says, “Thought I’d make dinner seeing as your fridge is empty.  You’re welcome, by the way.”

 

“I’m trying to picture you walking up the stairs with an armful of groceries,” Q says as he leans in close, sniffing at one of the pans.

 

“I’ve nearly been killed in enough elevators,” James says, and Q hides his grin as he turns away.

 

“French?” he asks even as he reaches up, opening his liquor cabinet.  “Oh,” he groans, reaching for a bottle, “This is expensive.”

 

“I’m surprised you’ve had it before,” James admits, watching Q take the bottle of wine to the island.

 

“Only once,” Q says, unscrewing the cork, “It was incredible.”  He lets the wine breathe while James finishes cooking, putting out plates before he leans against the counter and asks, “What are you doing?”

 

“Courting you,” James says easily, setting one of the pans to simmer, “Is it working?”

 

Q considers him, taking in his profile and trying to figure out if he should allow this or not.  Rather than offering up his usual excuse, he says, “Keep trying.”

 

“Duly noted,” James says.

 

They spend their evening eating delectable French food, polishing off the entire bottle of wine, and lounging, James taking his time picking a book from Q’s shelves while Q curls up in the armchair after putting a record on.  And if James happens to doze off halfway through  _The Dead_ , Q does nothing but lay a blanket over him and retire to his room.

 

——

 

“Okay, listen,” Q says a few weeks later before he knocks back the rest of his whiskey, “Foul play.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Eve counters, jabbing him sharply in the side with the blunt end of her fork, “This is completely fair.”

 

“I think she’s right,” Bill says, reaching for his beer.  Q looks over at him, his expression mutinous.  “Hey,” Bill says, lifting a hand, “I’m married, I’m allowed to have the final say on relationship advice.”

 

“That’s a fact,” Eve says, waving her fork at him, “And I’ve been in a relationship longer than you have, so I get second.”  Q starts to defend himself, so Eve says, “Darling.  Every story you tell me is a fighting story.  Is Aidan worth it?  I know that you really hit it off in the beginning, but there seems to be a pretty clear divide.”

 

Q mutters under his breath, pulling his legs up to fold under him.  They’re all gathered at Eve’s, Sam gone out for the night with some friends, and so she and Q cooked something incredible while Bill was late getting alcohol.  He’s been a new addition recently, to their standing Thursday night dinner, though Q is starting to grow increasingly fond of him.

 

“It’s hard,” Bill says, “I get it.  Melody honest to god wouldn’t accept my proposal until she knew something.  She felt like there was a vital piece missing.”

 

“That’s what Aidan keeps saying,” Q says, “But it’s just—I’ve barely known him a half year, and he expects me to spill everything.  I mean—Christ, he knows my name.”

 

“Really?” Eve says, looking over at him in surprise, “When did that happen?”

 

Q grits his teeth.  “Our first date,” he admits, and Eve’s eyes go wide with shock.  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he says quickly, “It felt—weird, I guess, to hear him call me Q.  That’s not what—that’s my—why even bother with humans, seriously?”

 

Eve smiles, shaking her head.  “Sweets, I don’t want to know your name,” she says, “You’re Q to me, and you always will be.  Even if you told me, I’m not sure I would use it.”

 

“Seems like something only your family should know,” Bill says.

 

“Yes,” Q says, nodding, “And I don’t know why I told him.”

 

“Perhaps letting him use Q felt a little too close to telling the truth?” Eve suggests, and well, he doesn’t have a response to that.

 

“Change of subject,” Bill says after a few moments of letting Q stew, “Our favorite double oh agent told me about your sleeve.”

 

“My what?” Q says, looking over at him with a furrowed brow.

 

“Oh, they’re awesome,” Eve says, “Come on, cardigan off.”

 

“Is this really happening?” Q says even as Eve reaches around him and starts undoing his buttons, “I don’t see what the big fuss is.”

 

“The big fuss?” Eve echoes, “Q, really.  Have you looked in the mirror?  Ever?”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re wearing a cardigan, first of all, and a perfectly knotted tie, and yet, there happens to be a world of ink beneath all that posh nonsense.”

 

“I’d like to point out that—stop that,” he swats at Eve’s hands, finishing it himself, “I’d like to point out that this is definitely inappropriate, forcing me to strip in your flat.”

 

“Why, are there more than just your arm?” Eve asks.

 

“Yes, and you’ll not be privy to them, thank you very much.”

 

Q obediently shows off the lower half of his left arm, and though it continues to creep up and over his shoulder, he doesn’t reveal that.  The inside of his lower arm is dotted with geometric shapes and lines, curving around one another in perfect asymmetry until they morph into darker lines, open honeycombs curling around his elbow and disappearing beneath his shirt where they darken significantly, his upper arm and shoulder shaded black against the continuing lines and further honeycomb design on his shoulder.  It wraps around onto the back of his shoulder, starting to lighten as it twists into something resembling a complex circuit board.  He explains a little of this to them, though he leaves out the other half, thinking back on Aidan’s comment.

 

One week later, he’s back under the gun.

 

——

 

In the midst of bitter January, Q leaves the branch in R’s capable hands and, miraculously, when he looks at his watch, he’s nearly on time for his targeted end of day.  Q hums a noise of discontent at this even as he steps into the elevator and tugs out his phone.

 

_I’ll be home in forty, if the trains are good._

_I could just pick you up_ , Aidan types back.

 

There’s this—thing happening between them.  It’s been stirring for a while, and though they fight, Q is often happier than he thought possible when he’s spending time with Aidan, but his job keeps coming up, and it’s this  _thing_ that may be turning into a nasty, bruising point between them that Q refuses to settle.  He has already given up his name before it occurs to him that, really, he doesn’t know how to trust Aidan, not with everything that he’s learned at MI-6.  And perhaps, he muses, this is something of a disadvantage in the world, but it may just save his life one day, and so Q keeps shoving Aidan’s curiosity away to deal with it later.

 

 _It’s okay_ , he types back,  _I enjoy the tube._

_If it gets bad, let me know, and I’ll come get you.  I don’t want to be late for our reservation._

 

Q makes an irritable noise as the doors chime open on the top level, lifts his hand to access his floor again, and strides into his lab.   _I’ll take one of the company cars_ , he throws at his phone as he makes his way over to the Aston Martin.  He really shouldn’t, but he rebuilt it from the ground up after Skyfall, and he’s sick to death of it just sitting here because he’s too goddamn stubborn to give it back to James.

 

He calls Eve on the way, exhaling relief when she picks up almost instantly and says, “Did you just nick the Martin?”

 

“Why the hell do people even date?  What’s the point in other humans?” Q snaps, his pulse rocketing up, “I mean,  _honestly_ , if I say the job is confidential, that should be good enough.”

 

“It’s never enough,” Eve says, her voice tainted in something like sorrow, “I’m starting to have this same issue with Sam right now.”

 

“But you’re picturing a life with Sam—children and family gatherings and boring shit like that.”

 

“Oh, Q,” Eve says, “Is that not what you imagine with Aidan?”

 

“No,” the answer startles Q, and it occurs to him, with shocking speed, that he’s never really considered anything but the next date.  “Oh,” Q says.

 

“I think your problem isn’t the job,” Eve says, and then quickly amends, “Well, it is, but not the way you’re thinking it.  Being Q means more to you than being Aidan’s boyfriend.”

 

“Of course it does,” Q says, “It’s my life.  It’s everything I’ve ever worked toward.  It’s—Jesus, I sound like James Bond, in love with my profession.”

 

“A package came for you, by the way.  I came down, but R said you’d just left.  Yes, it was tested,” she adds as he begins to speak.

 

“You can’t be too careful,” he says.

 

“I highly doubt 004 intended for it to explode quite so tremendously.”

 

“But it did explode,” Q reminds her, “Though she’s on leave right now, on vacation with her daughter.”

 

“Sweets,” Eve croons, “It wasn’t from 004.”

 

“008 is undercover,” Q says, “And 005 is on my very short temper list.”

 

“You almost said hit list,” Eve accuses.

 

“M quite nearly  _growled_  at me the other day when I said hit list.  Somehow, he didn’t find it as hilarious as R did, though Nala did warn.”

 

“Q,” Eve laughs, “What ever has he done now?”

 

“He blew up a fucking  _pen_!” Q exclaims, his voice getting a little shrill, “Have you any idea how many exploding pen requests I’ve fielded from Bond?  When he hears about it, he will actively make my life miserable.”

 

“Can anyone do that?” Eve says, disbelief evident in her voice.

 

“I will not lock my double ohs out of Q branch,” Q says, “That’s cruel.”

 

“Are those M’s words?”

 

“He was rather cross last time I attempted it.”

 

“Not that you’re ever prone to following the rules,” Eve says, “Have you guessed yet?”

 

“002 said something about the flowers that were blooming in— _Christ_.”

 

“We’ve arrived, finally,” Eve says delightedly, “I thought we’d get here soon, what with the history.”

 

“It’s been a few months with nothing but tea.  What did he send me?” Q demands as he comes around the corner onto his street.

 

“I haven’t the faintest,” Eve says.

 

“Don’t be cheeky, I know you opened it,” Q says, and then promptly groans, “He’s at my flat.”

 

“James?” Eve asks in surprise.

 

“No, my bloody boyfriend,” Q mutters darkly, “I told him I’d be home in forty if I took the tube, he got cross, so I borrowed the Martin, and he’s already here.”

 

“Stole,” Eve says.

 

“Temporarily acquired,” Q says, pulling up a few cars down from his flat, “What was in the package?”

 

“Three things.  You have one guess for each.”

 

Q sighs irritably at her before he cuts the engine, gathers his things, and gets out.  “A plant of some sort,” he says, throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder.

 

“You can do better than that,” Eve counters.

 

“A cactus,” Q says, grinning when Eve huffs at him, “A book.”

 

“That’s a given,” Eve says, “Try harder.”

 

“He brought back another David Mitchell last time, but there’s that horror film Netflix keeps recommending to me,  _Horns_.”

 

“Son of a gun,” Eve says, and Q can picture her shaking her head.

 

“Hang tight,” he says as he approaches Aidan’s car, and then starts swearing again, “I swear to god, if he tried to break into my flat, I’m going to have an aneurism.”

 

“Q, darling,” Eve says, “Maybe it’s time for a conversation.”

 

“I’m not—I haven’t slept in 72 hours,” he admits, “I can’t do this tonight.  Tea.”

 

“What kind?” Eve asks, allowing the change of topic.

 

“Oh bother,” Q sighs, making his way up the stairs and shouldering open the doors.  Aidan is leaning against the front counter, chatting up the owner’s daughter, who mans the lobby during the weekdays.  “I lied, coffee.”

 

“How!” Eve yells.

 

“He found out that I used to work at a coffee shop in my youth.  I’ve got to go.  My date is here,” he says, trying to make it sound light as he smiles.

 

“Be nice to him,” Eve says, “Shall I have the package dropped by?”

 

“On my desk is fine,” Q says, “I’ll be in tomorrow.”

 

“Sleep before then,” Eve says before she hangs up.

 

“Still working on the way home?” Aidan says as he comes over, “How’d you get here so fast?”

 

“Took a fast car,” Q says, “Do you mind if we run up so I can change first?”  He allows Aidan to kiss him, soft and careful, tasting a little unsure, and then Aidan nods.

 

Upstairs, Q rummages around in his clothes until he can find something matching and decent, rolls an oil along the sides of his neck to chase away the lingering scent of his lab, and fidgets with his hair until he gives up.  Aidan is in the living room, paging through the book Q had left on the sofa.

 

“Rereading this old thing again?” Aidan asks, showing him the cover of  _The Bone Clocks_.  Q taps his temple and heads straight for the kettle.  “If you haven’t been sleeping, caffeine isn’t going to help,” Aidan says, and Q’s grip tightens on the cap of his black tea mason jar.  He exhales slowly and twists it back on, turning to Aidan.

 

“Shall we, then?” he says, trying for a smile before he makes to leave.

 

Aidan follows, though Q lilts off toward the stairs, saying, “I’ve nearly died in enough elevators in my life.”  It’s not true, but it always makes Aidan laugh, and he does so now, nodding and reaching for Q’s hand as they take the stairs.

 

“I was going to buy you that book, you know,” Aidan says as they enter the lobby, “Back when we first met.”

 

“Were you really?” Q says, looking over at him in surprise, “What for?”

 

“Just because,” Aidan says, “What car did you take?”

 

Q waves a vague hand down the street, though the Martin is mostly hidden, and then, as he steps toward Aidan’s beaten up station wagon, he can’t help but pause, looking back toward it.  “Want to take it out?” he asks, already reaching into his pocket for the keys, “She’s lovely.”

 

“Sure,” Aidan says, “I admit, I didn’t think you knew how to drive.”

 

“Just because I have a license doesn’t mean it’s legal,” Q teases, though it’s partially true.

 

Settled into the Aston Martin, with Aidan looking around in awe, Q understands a little why James is always making awful innuendos around this car.  “What stopped you?” Q asks when they’re on the road.

 

“From buying the book?” Aidan finishes, and the corner of Q’s mouth curls up.  He’s always loved how adept Aidan is at following his often wild train of thought.  Aidan shrugs and says, “You already owned it.”

 

“Someone gave it to me, actually,” Q says, thinking back on that strange collection of items sitting outside his door.

 

“How funny,” Aidan says, “It was odd, really.  I intended to buy it as a kind of—cheer up gift, after—you know.”

 

“Yes,” Q says quickly.  His mum is not something he likes to talk about, even now, months later.

 

“But the week after everything happened, when I came to visit, I had forgotten to order new stock for the shop.  Odd because someone had  _just_  bought the last copy the week previous.”

 

Q blinks.  Something is trying to slide into place, but there’s a vital puzzle edge missing, one of those jagged, uncertain pieces.  “What did they look like?” he asks.

 

Aidan shoots him a sideways glance that lets Q know he’s being strange.  “Tall,” Aidan says, “Blonde.  Didn’t look like he belonged in a bookstore, honestly.  He was wearing this suit.  Fucking expensive, it looked.  I only remember because of that.”

 

He’s sitting in James Bond’s fucking Aston Martin when he realizes what’s happening, what’s been happening, what Eve explicitly warned him not to let happen.

 

“Fuck,” Q exhales.

 

“Something wrong?” Aidan asks.

 

“I just—remembered—I forgot to relay some information to one of our secretaries,” he finally comes up with, “Mind if I make a quick call?”

 

“Sure,” Aidan says, sounding tired.

 

Q reaches forward, taps a button on the radio, and ignores Aidan’s soft exclamation as it unfolds, revealing a small collection of communication devices.  He selects a wireless earbud—he’d been so good, even leaving his favorite pair back at the branch, just to impress Aidan—and tucks it snugly into his left ear before he pulls up the contacts, dialing a secure number.

 

“Q?” Eve answers unsurely.

 

“His omelet was not superior, and I know who fucking brought my mug that day.”

 

It takes a few long moments before Eve heaves a sigh and says, “I told you not to do this.”

 

“I—expressly did not do this,” Q argues, “I was not privy to this.  Is R involved?”

 

“And Nala.  They’ve been giving him hints.”

 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Q growls.  Aidan looks over at him sharply, brows drawn tight in concern.  Q inhales and exhales loudly, through his teeth.  “If he gets himself into shit, I will not, I—he bloody well deserves to fall into the fucking Ladon, the  _nerve_.”

 

“Q—”

 

“Of all the bloody people he could have—”

 

“If he falls in the Ladon, you can rest assured he won’t be returning in one piece,” Eve cuts him off swiftly, “It is January after all.”

 

Quite a bit of the tension leaves Q’s body as he sees the restaurant approaching.  “I’m going dark for the rest of the night,” he says finally, “Do tell R that if he reaches out, I’ll set his bird loose and let it shit all over his flat.”

 

“Don’t make empty threats, sweets,” Eve says before the line goes dead.

 

“I’m sorry,” Q says immediately, “I’m so sorry, that was—incredibly inappropriate and uncalled for.”

 

“It’s okay,” Aidan says, “Are you okay?  That sounded pretty awful.”

 

“Someone—” Q lifts a hand to rub furiously at his temple, which is starting to ache, “Someone made a mess of one of their—assignments, and now it’s all on me.”  It’s an effective lie because Aidan swallows it.

 

At least, until they’re halfway through dinner, and he asks, “What is it that you do?”  When he catches sight of Q’s impending expression, he says, “You don’t have to tell me where you work, just—maybe a little of what you do.  You always give these vague clues, and honestly, Rowan—”

 

The name catches him off guard, and Q misses whatever else it is that Aidan says until he’s looking at him imploringly, and Q just blurts out, “I improve people’s security.  Company’s and individual person’s.  I have several clients, and a, uh—a branch of people that work under me that aid in the process.”

 

“Okay,” Aidan says, nodding, “What’s this assignment that someone’s mucked up?”

 

Q tries.  He tries valiantly, but his headache is persisting, and he knows Aidan can hear how he’s half-assing his answer as he tries to lie his way through  _James Bond_  until Q finally just excuses himself to the bathroom.  Once inside, he squints against the over bright lights, staggers into a stall, and heaves dryly into the toilet.  When it becomes apparent that he’s getting nowhere but closer to a migraine, Q washes his hands, swallows the mounting pain, and returns to Aidan.

 

He puts in every ounce of effort that he has left in his bone-tired body, and Aidan brightens as dinner carries on.  They go out for a short walk after, but are soon drawn back to the car due to the chill, and Q makes short work of getting them home, driving faster than is strictly necessary.

 

“Do you want to come up?” Q asks against his better judgement as they approach his flat.

 

“I’d love that,” Aidan says, and somehow, some god in some wicked world is listening in, and Q makes it through three fingers of incredible whiskey and Aidan pulling at his clothes.  Later, though, when Aidan is asleep beside him, Q crawls out of bed and runs for the bathroom, vomiting violently enough that a tremor runs through him.

 

When he’s finished, he leans his temple against the cool porcelain of the bathroom, waits to see if he’ll puke anymore, and then promptly lies down when he tries to stand and nearly blacks out.  He dozes on the tile floor, the cold seeping into his skin and calming some of his wired nerve endings.  At some point, Joyce finds him, curling up against him and purring worriedly.

 

And then, an alarm starts going off.

 

It’s quiet, nothing that will wake Aidan, but it rouses Q, and he pushes himself upright, grabs a gun from under the sink, and levels his living room with a steady aim.  “Q,” a familiar voice groans before a body drops onto his sofa, “My apologies about breaking in.”

 

“Asshole,” Q groans, lowering the gun.  He carefully stows it back in its hiding spot—Aidan found it once and shouted so loud that someone came to knock and ask if everything was alright—before he hobbles back out toward the living room, squinting at the double oh agent bleeding on his sofa.  “Get the fuck off my sofa if you’re going to bleed out,” he says, though it’s around a yawn, and thus has no effect.

 

Regardless, James is in the kitchen when he next exits his bedroom, glasses on and a mug in his hand.  He closes the bedroom door, frowns at the blood that’s dripped from living room to kitchen, and says, “How’s Greece?”

 

“Colder than it was last time,” James says, exhaustion drawing his body into a curve.

 

Q takes another mug down from one of his cabinets, puts the kettle on, and comes over, squinting in the dim light.  “Care to explain?” he asks before he takes the seat opposite him, tugging it a little closer.

 

“A few cracked ribs,” James reports, “Dislocated shoulder at some point.”

 

“And yet, you managed to scale down to my flat.  Why didn’t you go to medical?”

 

James huffs an abhorrent noise at him, and Q smiles before he goes to retrieve the hissing kettle, pouring water into both mugs.  He makes something herbal for both of them, one of the teas James has brought back, and then says, “Will there be any stitches involved?”

 

James grunts, and Q looks over at him, with his head tipped back and eyes closed.  “Affirmative,” he finally rumbles, so Q sets the mugs down and disappears back into his bathroom.

 

He lets his mind wander as he retrieves supplies, thinks about what this means, that James trusts him enough to come here in the dead of night rather than just swallow his pain with liquor like he normally does, and finds he doesn’t want to address the potential reasoning behind that.

 

When Q returns to the kitchen, James has moved again, returning to the sofa, where he’s in a staring match with Keats, and Q sighs dejectedly at him even as he joins him.  “The target?” Q asks as he sets his supplies down on a small coffee table near the sofa and then, against all his better judgement, kneels.

 

“Dead,” James says tiredly, finally looking away from Keats, “You’re welcome.”

 

“I prefer them alive, actually.  Often times, they have valuable information that we can suss out.”

 

“You keep telling yourself that,” James says, “They’ll all swallow cyanide before they spill.”

 

“Is that still a thing?” Q asks, genuinely curious, “Do you have one?”

 

James nods and says, “Still a thing, though I believe it’s optional now.”

 

“Do you all still have it, regardless?”  James gives him a look, which is answer enough.  “Where are the stitches going?”

 

“How scandalous,” James  _purrs_ , and Q is baffled for a moment before he starts undoing his belt, and that’s when he notices how much darker the thigh of his left leg is than his right.

 

“M will have you on active leave for weeks,” Q says, and James growls under his breath at him.  He starts struggling halfway, and Q heaves a sigh before he straightens, pulling James to his feet so he can get his trousers down past his knees.  “Well,” Q says, and gets to work.

 

He cleans up and stitches James’s leg first, ignoring his request for alcohol and instead plying him with herbal tea until James just gives up and accepts it, twigs and all.  He makes a haughty comment about unsteady hands, so Q stabs him with the needle, and he hisses at him, recoiling a little.  When he’s finished, though, James doesn’t utter a word.

 

They get him out of his jacket and shirt next, Q applying pressure to his shoulder until he’s satisfied, and then the fun truly begins.  He lets his hands shift around James’s right ribs, frowning each time his breathing shifts, until he’s got a good idea where most of the damage is, and then he starts wrapping him up.

 

Though he presses the mug back into James’s hand before going to find something for the pain, there’s a whiskey bottle sitting next to the sofa when he returns, James lying on his left side.  “Bad idea,” Q says, nudging his shoulder, “On your back.  It’ll make breathing easier.”

 

“Only if you’re on top,” James says softly.

 

“Mostly taken,” Q reminds him, and James smirks at the  _mostly_.

 

“I can change that,” he promises.

 

“You quite likely are,” Q says before pulling him up by the back of his head, stuffing a few more pillows beneath him.  “Take these,” Q says, handing him a few pills and a glass of water.  He takes the whiskey with him, ignores James’s threat to maim him, and disappears into his bedroom, where he stares at Aidan’s sleeping form in his bed for a few seconds before he just— _gives up_.

 

Q grabs his laptop from his desk, a pair of earbuds to connect with the skeleton crew, and goes to join James in the living room, making a rude gesture at him when James makes a lewd comment.  He curls up in his favorite, large armchair, and starts working.

 

At some point, he makes another round of tea, this time with caffeine, and the sun starts to rise.  He jots off a quick email to his tattoo artist to schedule another appointment, opens one of the balcony doors a smidge, and then lets out a heavy exhale when he finally notices how dead tired James must be, for he’s asleep, truly and soundly out cold, Keats curled up in between his legs.

 

Q’s never seen him like this, unaware and completely trusting of his surroundings.  He frowns at that, but instead of picking it apart, makes more tea instead.  By the time Aidan wakes up, Q has quite forgotten he’s here.

 

“Rowan?” comes a sleepy voice.

 

Q starts, knees jumping up and unbalancing his laptop.  He swears loudly, scrambling to grab it before it falls, and, whether it’s Aidan’s unfamiliar voice or Q’s sudden movements, James is upright in an instant, the Walther aimed at Aidan.

 

“What the hell!” Aidan yelps, arms going up into the air, above his head.

 

“Friend,” Q quickly says, but James doesn’t hear him, his focus derailed.  Q unfolds from the armchair, lowers his laptop to the coffee table, and comes around just beside James’s lifted arm.  “James,” he says softly, stepping into his line of sight.  James’s gaze flicks up to him, briefly, but Q doesn’t see a flicker of recognition there, and he lets out a quiet, sad sound.

 

He hates this, every second of it.

 

Q touches James’s wrist lightly, watches him react, and disarms him even as James starts to come back, realizes where he is.  “I said friend,” Q says, knocking the butt of the gun against his good shoulder before he flicks the safety on and lowers it onto the coffee table.

 

“What the fuck?” Aidan snaps.

 

“Oh,” Q says, and James looks up at him, has the audacity to look sheepish.  “Shut up,” he mutters at him, “Go away.”

 

James nods once, a quick jerk of his head before he gets to his feet, pauses to pick up Keats, which is enough to set Q’s axis off-kilter, and limps out of the flat and onto the balcony, grabbing the blanket off the back of the sofa as he does, as well.  Only when the door is closed again does Q turn, his whole body tensed for a fight, but Aidan has a strange expression as he looks out toward the balcony.

 

“Aidan,” Q says, moving toward him.

 

“That’s—that’s the guy that bought the book.”  Q frowns.  “Oh my god,” Aidan says, “You knew that.  Are you cheating on me?”

 

“No,” Q says immediately, “He’s one of my clients.”

 

“Oh?” Aidan exclaims, finally turning his attention on Q, “Really now?  One of your clients is sporting broken ribs, but still manages to brandish a loaded weapon at me?  What the fuck is going on, Rowan?”

 

Q flinches.  He doesn’t mean to, but he’s a breath too late trying to suppress it.

 

“What?” Aidan snaps.

 

“Aidan, please,” Q says, “I can’t—it’s complicated.”

 

“No, it’s simple.  You’re lying to me.  Sure, go ahead and say that’s your _client_ , or whatever you want to call him, but it’s so obvious how far that is from the truth.  He looks like a fucking assassin, for Christ’s sake, and you just stepped in front of a  _gun_  and took it out of his hands like you’ve handled them a thousand times.  I know you have guns, I’ve seen them, and don’t think I don’t know they’re still here, but  _Jesus_ , Rowan, there’s something monumental that you’re not telling me.  There’s this—gaping hole in my knowledge of you.”

 

Q scoffs.  He doesn’t really intend to do it out loud, but he’s so exhausted of having this conversation over and over again that he lets it out.

 

“Oh, this is funny now, is it?” Aidan snarls, his expression going dark and furious.

 

“You probably know more about me than he does, and I work with him every day,” Q says, “You know everything.  He doesn’t even know my name, Aidan.  What more do you want from me?”

 

“Honestly, I think he does know your name,” Aidan says, “Because every time I call you Rowan, you get this—this look.  Like I’ve hit you or something.  I don’t think anyone who  _knows_ you calls you that anymore.  I just—I really don’t have any clue who you are.  Your job, it’s—”

 

“It’s not up for discussion,” Q says, shaking his head and turning away from Aidan, making for the stove.

 

“Why not?” Aidan says, following him, “I’ll sign whatever bloody paperwork you need me to.  I’ll swear myself to secrecy if that’s what it takes.  I want to be with you, Rowan, but not like this, not without knowing.  This is tearing us apart.  Don’t you see it?  You can’t tell me what you spend 90% of your daily life doing, and that’s not fair to me.”

 

“I won’t ask you to do that,” Q says quietly, filling the kettle.

 

“I don’t care,” Aidan says, his voice going soft as he comes up, one hand curling around Q’s bicep in a tender touch, “I want to.  I want to move forward with you.  I want to be with you, spend every night with you, and wake up knowing that you’ll be safe, wherever you’re going.  I don’t want to have to worry because I have no idea what it is you’re up to.”

 

Q shrugs out of his touch and steps back, putting distance between them.  “I won’t ask you to do that,” Q repeats, “Maybe in a few years, but not now.”

 

“What?”

 

“Aidan, we’ve—we’ve been dating for what, six months?  Barely?  I can’t—it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I can’t yet, not with this.  And even if you knew—” he breaks off, shaking his head, “My position is high-risk.  I’m going to be in danger every day.  That is why I have a gun in the bathroom.  Even if you knew, you could never stay here often.  Half the time, I’m working in the middle of the night, and I could never take the chance of you seeing something.  My family signed all of the necessary paperwork, and all they know is the bare bones.  I could never tell you anything, even if you knew.”

 

Silence settles, thick and awful as Aidan absorbs this, nodding slowly.

 

“I should go,” he says finally.

 

“I don’t think you should come back,” Q responds, and Aidan closes his eyes, looking away, fingers digging into his arms.

 

“This is it, then?”

 

“I won’t say I’m sorry.”

 

“Because you’re not,” Aidan says, “Right.”  He opens his eyes, looking back at Q.  “You’re an asshole, I hope you know that.”

 

“I never said I was going to be nice,” Q says, “But I did say I would never tell you, and yet you let it become this point of contention between us.”

 

“It’s a fucking job, Rowan,” Aidan snaps, “Maybe you should try falling in love with a human instead of a computer.”

 

“Humans talk back.”

 

Aidan hits him.

 

Q’s so caught off guard that he doesn’t even have time to react before Aidan’s stalking off in the direction of the bedroom.  Q blinks, lifting a hand to his nose and staring at it absurdly when it comes away red with blood.  He looks over as the balcony door shushes open and blinks when James lifts his eyebrows in question.

 

“It’s doubtful,” Aidan says as he comes back out, dressed, with a bag over his shoulder, “But I hope someone makes you happy eventually.”

 

The door slams behind him, and then Q sags back against the counter, reaching for the dish cloth even as he says, “Don’t bother.”

 

“Still taken?” James asks, and Q lets out a hollow laugh, though it shatters when James lays a careful hand on his arm, lowering the cloth so he can look at his nose.  “Not broken,” James says.

 

Q laughs again, with a little more weight to it this time.  “He wasn’t nearly mad enough to hit that hard.”

 

“Oh, so you know the correct amount of pressure to break a nose?” James says, his charm sliding back into place.

 

“Would you like a demonstration?”

 

James just grins at him, all teeth.

 

There’s a moment there, that Q could linger in if he wanted to, but then his phone starts ringing.  “Duty calls,” he says, stepping around James and toward his bedroom.

 

Four minutes later, when he comes back out, dressed haphazardly and swearing, James hands him a travel mug, Q blinks at him, and says, “Go home,” before he disappears out the door.

 

James intends to ignore him and just curl up on Q’s sofa again, but the idea of watching him work is more tantalizing, and so James makes his way upstairs, showers slowly, and changes into something distractingly casual.  Really, it’s just dark grey slacks and a plain navy shirt, but he knows it’ll make M narrow his eyes and Q reach for his mug.  He understands this game they’ve been playing, but he’s becoming increasingly bored with their current standing, and he intends to adjust that.

 

He doesn’t get very far.

 

When James enters Q branch, it’s eerily quiet.  There’s the usual hum of machinery and the lightning fast clack of keys, but no one is speaking.  M is standing at Q’s main desk, watching the monitors rather than the man himself, whom James lets his attention drift to.

 

“005, I explicitly told you to wait,” he breaks the silence, his voice neutral.

 

James comes up next to M, who frowns at him and says, “You’re due in medical in an hour.”

 

“They’ll heal,” James says offhandedly, “What’s wrong?”

 

“004’s cover was blown.”

 

“By 005?”

 

“He is no longer under our protection.”

 

James nods, turning his gaze to Q.  This ends one way, and though it’s been quite some time since he’s had to witness the double oh program reveal its flaws like this, he wonders if 005 is aware of the outcome.

 

Q utters a single, compound expletive.  “004,” he says quickly, “The door to your right should be unlocked.”

 

“Affirmative,” 004 says into his ear, “Proceeding down the hallway.  Any sign of 005?”

 

Q’s grey eyes flick to the small, yellow dot labeled 005 and watches it disappear.  “005, report,” Q says.

 

“Sorry, quartermaster, going dark.”

 

“005, you will— _bastard_ ,” Q grinds out, “004, I’ve lost contact.  Proceed.”

 

He listens to the ricochet of a bullet against stone before she’s returning fire, and then she starts running, occasionally darting to each side to press one of Q’s favorite inventions into the walls.  “Exit,” she says.

 

Q keeps typing.  “Quarter mile, door on your left.”

 

“We need that hard drive,” M says, and Q’s jaw tightens minutely.

 

“Change of plans,” Q says, “Half mile, stairwell at the end.”

 

“Trying to let me off easy, is it?” 004 quips cheerily, “Not like you, Q.”

 

“Trying to maintain a full roster, actually,” he says, and then, “Why are you running like that?”

 

004 shoots the camera, and he sighs when it goes black.  “There’s no need for a running commentary on why I don’t bend my knees like a high jumper.  I get it enough from 008.”

 

“An accurate description,” Q says, “But irrelevant.  Were you hit?”

 

“Ah,” 004 says, “It’ll heal.”

 

“Right,” Q says, “Divulging your coordinates to medevac, then.”

 

“Give it a mile or six,” 004 says, “They’ve infiltrated the entire city.”

 

Q adjusts the location and shoots off a command with his right hand and reaches across his body with his left to pick up his empty mug and offer it to James.  “If you’re just going to stand there brooding,” he says, not looking up.

 

James maintains a neutral expression as he takes the scrabble mug and carefully doesn’t limp away.  “Stairwell,” 004 says.

 

“30 steps, give or take 10,” Q says, “There should be another door at the bottom.  M, you’re creating an impending headache.”

 

“That’s unfortunate,” M says.

 

Q makes an aborted gesture toward the plant corner.  “Can you see if I’ve remembered to water those?”  M absolutely knows he hasn’t, but he walks away regardless.

 

“Underground,” 004 reports, “This is—interesting.”

 

“Describe it to me?” Q asks even as he starts typing, pulling on different threads.

 

“It’s a circular room,” she says, uncertainty creeping in at the edge of her voice, “Doors everywhere.  Which one do I take?”

 

Q frowns.  This is uncomfortably familiar.

 

“Friend!” someone shouts even as 004 lets off a shot.

 

“005 has joined me,” she says, “From one of the doors.  How did you get here?” she directs to him.

 

005 comes closer, and thus his voice grows louder, “Not everyone needs someone to hold their hand.”

 

004 whips him across the face with her gun, and Q slips his way quietly into the camera feed finally, pulling it up to find 004 aiming at 005.  “This is quite the development,” Q says.

 

“Tell me you’re not dirty,” 004 says even as 005 massages his jaw.

 

“Dirty?” 005 says, “Are you mad?  I blew your cover.  Do you really think I’m going back there alive?”

 

Q shifts his attention to the doors, zooming in on the image as James places the scrabble mug down next to his laptop.  “Go prowl somewhere else,” Q says distractedly.

 

James does just that, walking the perimeter of the room and then a circle around Q’s desks before he settles behind him, watching.  “Shit,” Q says suddenly, “004, directly to your right, take that one.  It has a question mark on it.”

 

“Curious and curiouser,” 004 quotes at him before she starts moving, gun still trained on 005.

 

“Em—” 005 begins.

 

“That’s quite enough,” 004 says, “You may not walk out of here safe, but I certainly will not go down with you.”  And then she’s through, Q unlocking the door as she reaches for the handle.  He locks it again after she’s placed another miniscule explosive on the door and stepped inside, watching 005 run after her and slam into the door, banging on it.

 

“Q!” he yells, looking up toward one of the cameras, “Let me in!”

 

Q casts a glance over his shoulder toward M, who shakes his head once.  “You should be in the belly of the beast now,” Q reports to 004, “Do you see it?”

 

“Affirmative, obtaining the device now.”

 

As she starts working, Q starts plotting an escape route.  He glares at various blueprints until he finds what he’s looking for, and he’s about to relay the information to 004 when fire leaps up onto his camera feed.  Q pulls up one of the other ones and adjusts his glasses.

 

“Agent down,” he says firmly.

 

“Who?” M says, turning.

 

“005.  Grenade.  004, get out of there.  They’re at the door.”

 

“It’s not finished copying yet,” she says, “I’m at 75%.”

 

Q lets his fingers curl in toward his palms for a moment before he takes a sip of tea and gets to work on strengthening the security features on the door.

 

He’s about six seconds too late.

 

Of the four people at the door, the only woman laughs suddenly, presses something against the lock, and grins at the camera when it swings open.  “004!” Q exclaims.

 

She yanks the hard drive out, takes aim, and gets a clean headshot in before they roll another grenade across the ground.  “Take care of her, Q,” she says before it’s over.  The room is really more of a cell, claustrophobically small with low ceilings and only one way out.

 

Q feels it sink its claws deep in him, tries to swallow past the rising darkness as he opens a program, taps in a quick command, and says, “Agent down.  Detonating remotely in fifteen seconds.”

 

M’s shoulders sag, but he doesn’t turn away from the cypress.

 

James watches Q warily.  He’s witnessed this new quartermaster in plenty of awful situations, but his knowledge base of how Q handles death is limited to his mother, and he knows, though M hasn’t moved to watch firsthand, that Q’s being tested right now, whether he knows it or not.

 

It takes only a single, long breath before Q says, “R, status report on 002.”

 

R doesn’t miss a beat.  “Apparently, it’s a harvest moon tomorrow.”

 

Q’s mouth quirks.  He rolls his shoulders, turns toward the plant corner, and says, “M.”  M finally faces him, waiting for him to continue.  “Sir, I would like to formally request to be the one who informs Lacey.”

 

“Not her husband?” M asks.

 

“Ex,” Q supplies, “She’s in Alaska currently, sir.  She was returning home next week.”

 

“You have four days, then.  I expect you to continue work remotely.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Q says before he turns back, but James sees it, the way he’s hiding, shoving it away to deal with later even as he starts booking himself a flight.

 

“It was my understanding that you hated flying,” James says from behind him.

 

Q shrugs one shoulder.  “Certain sacrifices must be made.”

 

“I’ve always fancied a trip to somewhere cold and dreary.”

 

“London not doing it for you?” Q asks, though it’s lacking his usual sharpness.

 

James doesn’t respond, but Q books two seats regardless.

 

——

 

It’s possible a 15 hour flight is a highly idiotic way to get over his fear of planes, but Q decides to take the positive spin and pretend it’s going to be a breeze.  The flight isn’t until the following morning, in the dark hours before dawn, and so he spends the rest of his day at work, taking lead on 002’s mission, which is blessedly easy.

 

He listens to him ramble on about the upcoming harvest moon, directs him through a traffic jam, and exhales relief when he secures the target without too much trouble.  When he’s got him scheduled for a flight the following afternoon and takes a moment to look up something cultural nearby, 002 is all smiles when he receives the email.

 

“I’ll bring back something festive,” he says before they close out.

 

“Sir,” Nala says, approaching his desk, “003 called in.  He got into a bit of a jam, and we’ve hit a roadblock.”

 

“Okay,” Q says, stepping away from his main laptop—it’s nonsense, but his fingers are starting to ache from using it, and he feels better being away from the one that betrayed him.

 

003 is currently in a locked room, just as small and low-ceilinged as 004’s, and Q’s breaths start to fall out of rhythm as he helps him check the perimeter.  Without warning, James appears at his side, leaning against one of the desks, sipping out of  _his scrabble mug_ , and Q has half a mind to yank the mug from his hand and throw its steaming contents in his face when he hears how loudly James is breathing.  It’s not enough to draw attention, but enough to make Q focus, and he swallows his pride, letting James be his anchor while he helps 003.

 

“Q,” 003 says evenly, “We would perish without you.”

 

“Found that niche in the wall?” Q asks without inflection.

 

There’s a brief pause, in which 003 feels further along the wall, and then, as he’s unveiling a hidden door, he says, “Everything alright, Q?  You sound considerably less smug than usual.”

 

James rumbles with a small laugh beside him, but Q is just  _tired_.

 

“There should be another door at the end of this considerably long hallway,” Q says dryly.

 

“Point taken,” 003 says, and then starts an easy jog down the hall.

 

It’s about three miles long, and it winds throughout the bottom levels of the building 003’s managed to get himself kidnapped in, but, eventually, Q pipes back up, “There are several armed men beyond that door, 003.”

 

“And what, pray tell, leads you to believe I wasn’t prepared for that?”

 

It’s more character than 003 has ever shown, and Q allows himself the barest of smiles.  He steps one foot toward James, bumping their elbows together, and James puts down the mug, so Q takes it, sniffing before he sips.  He dashes a few lines of code across his screen, which may or may not let him into the electrical wiring of the building, and James says, “You sneaky bastard,” before he cuts the power.

 

“Oh, Q,” 003 says fondly, “You’ve uncovered the secret to a man’s heart.”

 

“Through a knife fight in the dark?”

 

“Precisely,” 003 says before he shoulders the door open.

 

Q listens, his cameras gone dark, and it’s immensely satisfying when 003 reports four minutes later, “It’s so very droll that none of these hatchlings can wield a knife properly.”

 

“Hatchlings,” Q echoes, shaking his head in disbelief, “And what constitutes that?”

 

“Don’t worry, you’re exempt.”

 

“Oh good, we’re referencing my age again.  Be a dear, and remind me how old you were when you joined up.”

 

“Heavens,” 003 says, “You  _are_ in a mood today.”

 

Their banter ends about there.  003 has always been quieter than the others on missions, and Q knows he was playing along simply to distract him, regardless of the fact that he hadn’t the faintest what he was distracting him from.  He retrieves a corrupted file Q has been itching to get his fingers on, gets himself out of the building, and erupts back into the daylight to say, “This goddamn puppy waited for me the entire time.”

 

“Pardon?” Q says, blinking at his computer.

 

“There’s been a—boerboel, I believe, following me through the city.”

 

Q pulls up a picture when James shifts curiously, and then he says, “Tell him to bring it back.”

 

“Flights are so much more difficult to find when there are livestock involved,” Q says.

 

“Livestock,” 003 and James say at the same time.

 

“Oh, fine,” Q mutters, “Are you bringing it back?”

 

“It’s entirely possible,” 003 says, “I’ll let you know if it’s still with me when I return to the hotel.”

 

“You’re going straight to the airport,” Q informs him, “They’ll be looking for you everywhere once they realize you’ve escaped.”

 

“If it’s feasible, then,” 003 says, and Q does his level best to find an accommodating flight.

 

“Are you quite finished wooing your agents yet?” James asks when he books him first class with the boerboel onboard.

 

“What time is it?” Q asks even as he looks at his watch, “Flight’s still hours away.”

 

“Q,” James says, “Enough.”

 

Q turns to him, the set of his jaw enough to let James know he’s taken the wrong route.  “In case it hasn’t occurred to you yet, I have an entire department to maintain.  There is no such thing as  _active leave_  for me.”

 

“Q—”

 

“Get out.”

 

James doesn’t bother arguing.  He does as he’s told, nodding when Nala gives him an apologetic shrug, and goes off to find Eve.

 

“What are you doing here?” Eve asks as he approaches.

 

“Came to play for a bit,” James says, swiftly clearing a space on her desk and sitting down, straightening as he presses against his ribs briefly, frowning.

 

“So you’ve been in Q branch all morning,” she says, “Your infatuation is showing, James.”

 

“Please,” James mutters, “Hardly a relevant term.”

 

“Darling,” Eve says, “You fall in love so fast, it’s dizzying.  I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt.”  James quirks an eyebrow at her in retaliation.  “Were you there when it happened?”  He nods, and Eve sighs.  “I’m worried about him,” she admits, “So many losses so quickly.”

 

“He’s handling it rather well,” James says, and then adds, against his better judgement, “Particularly after the rousing fight he had this morning.”

 

“Aidan?” Eve guesses, “I knew it.  It was only a matter of time.  Wait—excuse you, how do you know about that before I do?”

 

“I was there,” James says, smiling sweetly at her.

 

“Asshole,” she accuses, “Will you at least concede to being nice to him?”

 

“I’m not sure you and I know the same Q,” James says, “He seems rather deadly, actually.”

 

Eve laughs, open and honest.  “Glad to see you’re finally catching on,” she says and threatens him with the stapler until he gets off her desk.

 

——

 

The flight happens.  Q is awake for half of it until James slips some vodka into his tea, and well, that both adjusts the flavor to surprisingly delightful and improves the flight.  They arrive in Alaska at a rather strange time, and Q hasn’t slept in several hours, but he spotted an interesting festival, and after they’ve checked into their hotel, he says, “You’re coming with me,” and drags James Bond, of all people, along with him to investigate.

 

Q learns what ice looks like while it’s transforming into a sculpture, possibly spends far too much time in a gorgeous blue-themed oil painting room—and even sodding buys something, though he doesn’t think through how he’s taking it back, but James’s smile when he pays is worth it—and watches James try on a mask that does _things_ to Q’s mental capacity at the moment.

 

He doesn’t tiptoe past this line that seems to have formed between them, but Q hazards a guess that such a thing will happen soon.

 

When, inevitably, he must face Lacey, he does so after eight hours of sleep, two cups of tea, and an encouraging nod from James.  Regardless, Lacey knows the second he walks up to her table inside a café, and really, he hadn’t meant for this to be quite so loud.  He had intended to ask her to step outside, give her the gist of it, and then hopefully lead her to their rented car so that he could take her home and let her fall apart somewhere more quiet.

 

The world hates him.

 

She blinks at him first, in confusion, when he stops at the edge of her table and says, “Lacey, yes?”

 

“Who are you?” she asks even as something like recognition starts to dawn on her.

 

“I worked with your mother,” he says, swallowing.

 

It takes a moment, but then she exhales, heavy and unrelenting.  “Q?” she asks.  When he nods, her mug clatters against the table, spilling a latte everywhere, and she just— _dissolves_.

 

“Oh,” Q says hurriedly, moving to stop the shaking mug so that it doesn’t keep spilling before he takes her by the elbow and guides her upright, away from it spilling on her.  “I’m so sorry,” he says, and she steps into his space, hiding.

 

Q dutifully wraps his arms around her, trying to recall the many snippy comments on appropriate human behavior from Eve, and then James appears at his shoulder and says, “Let’s go, love, outside.”

 

He guides Lacey away, Q quickly following, ignoring the many stares around him, and James manages what he could not, leading her toward the car and encouraging her to get in.  Q slips in right after her so she doesn’t start to think this is some kind of kidnapping, and says, “She was very brave.”

 

“I know,” Lacey whispers, shoulders hitched up by her ears, and Q sighs before sliding across the seat to pull her into his arms.

 

She survives.  After a long night, Lacey agrees to return to England, James commends him on a job well done, and Q Googles how to move on from the loss of a loved one, but the internet is _useless_ , and so is he.

 

——

 

A month later, after 007 quite nearly cocks up a mission and manages to get shot in the side, M very neatly tells him he’s on active leave until he can _actually_ pass his exams.  James, in an awful moment of vulnerability, snatches the knife Q is working on and hurls it across the room toward the target.  His aim is impeccable, so Q says, “If you’re going to be a haunt now, you could at least be productive,” and hands him his mug.

 

James shows him his teeth and makes him something blacker than his suit.  Q swallows it with disinterest.

 

Of course, 008 takes this very opportune moment to disappear.

 

Q is in one of those traitorous arguments he gets in with Eve sometimes when it happens.  “I refuse,” Q snaps at her, keeping his voice low and even.

 

“It’s one date, Q,” Eve says, “It’s been weeks since Aidan, and you’ve barely left the office.”

 

“It’s been weeks since Aidan because I am not bloody interested, Eve.”

 

“Really,” Eve huffs, “Is that why there was some random bloke leaving your flat the other day at some ungodly hour?”

 

“Ungodly hour, really,” Q chirps back at her, “You were also there, _Moneypenny_.”

 

“Don’t,” she snarls at him, “Don’t you do that to me.”

 

Q lifts his left hand in an open palm gesture that does nothing to emphasize his point.  “I am perfectly allowed a few fun nights here and there.”

 

“It looked like someone had tried to _choke you_ ,” Eve says, and now Q can see how truly angry she is, but there’s a raging undercurrent of fear that he hadn’t noticed before.

 

“I am more than capable of taking care of myself,” Q says.

 

“Oh my god,” Eve says, “He did try to choke you.  Is that why he was leaving?”

 

“Of course it bloody was,” Q says, his palm coming down to slap against the desk as the doors to the branch slide silently open.  “He put his hands around my neck, and I pointed a gun at him.  Are you happy now that you know?” he spits at her.

 

“Could you have even shot him?” Eve seethes.

 

Q sharpens, all hard, angry edges before he lifts the gun he’s tinkering with, Eve sighs tiredly at him, R yells, and Q lets off a single round, his aim impeccable.

 

“Well,” James says, “That comes as a surprise.”

 

Because they’re still playing this fucking _game_ , and James has the nerve to think he’s being funny, so Q adjusts his aim, and James lifts an eyebrow in response.  “Perhaps,” Eve says, “You should consider who you let into your fucking _home_ next time you’re looking for a little _fun_ so you don’t end up begging concealer off of me to hide the fucking _red marks_ some asshole left on your _throat_.”  Q can hear the italics in each of her words, and he lowers the gun to stare at her in disbelief.

 

James’s expression falters.

 

“I’ll remember that the next time Sam makes you cry,” Q says, so Eve throws her pen at him and leaves.

 

“That was rather unfriendly of you,” James says evenly.

 

“Can I fucking help you with something?”  Q is at his breaking point.

 

“I do love a good tango,” James says.

 

Q is fully stocked with something nasty to say when an alarm goes off.  He blinks, defusing as he turns toward his laptop.  “Shit,” he says, facing his monitors, “008, report.”

 

When there’s no response, Q listens to R’s typing shift as he starts looking for her, and Q swallows bile as fear settles in his stomach.

 

Seven seconds pass.

 

“I can’t access her radio transmission,” R says finally.

 

“Okay,” Q says, and then proceeds to spend the next 43 hours retracing her steps, combing through every report, and trying out possible leads.  R and Nala take turns refilling his tea, deciding among themselves when he needs caffeine.  James takes over occasionally when he’s returned from a three-hour debrief with M, but mostly he sits on the sofa, working on a stack of paperwork that Nala gave him when he wouldn’t stop hovering around Q’s desks.  It’s mostly mission reports they haven’t finished, a budget report that he grins at and saves for later, and then, surprisingly, a few applications.

 

“What are these?” he asks when R stops by to pick through their menus.

 

R glances at them, rolls his eyes, and says, “M is trying to make Q hire a few new people.”

 

“Why?” James asks, looking around the room.

 

“Jared was fired, obviously,” R says, “Did you hear about Michele, from the previous quartermaster?  She literally just stopped showing up, so Q hacked into her home laptop and found out she’d started rigging online poker games in her favor.  We were down to about four from the previous quartermaster, and then those two blokes up and quit, tried to return to normal lives, they said, so M packed them up and sent them on an extended vacation with no access to technology.  We weren’t that large to begin with, and now we’re basically malnourished.”

 

James turns over one of the resumes, makes a rude noise at the quality of it, and sets it next to him.  “Weed out the weirdos, won’t you?” R says, finally settling on pizza.  James starts to respond, gaze shifting to the menu, but R says, “I’ll only tell you what his favorite food is if you offer to pay.”

 

James heaves a sigh, leveling R with his best look of contempt.  R grins, clearly sensing his success.  “Indian,” he says.  James hefts a shallow laugh at him, turning back to the resumes.  “Okay, fair enough,” R says, “There’s this place that’s completely out of the way that Eve gets for him sometimes.  He makes the most ridiculous noise about it.”

 

When James doesn’t budge, R asks, “The pizza?”

 

“Be clever about it,” James says, not looking up from the resume he’s reviewing, though he allows a small grin when R calls him insufferable and stalks away.

 

Q doesn’t eat though R leaves a small box on one of his desks.  The rest of the minions eat while they work, taking orders from R because their head of department is lost somewhere deep.

 

Hours pass.  Eve stops by to heat up Q’s pizza around eight that night and close his laptop, only allowing him a sliver of a second to pull away his hands.  She forces him to eat slowly and talk to her for ten minutes before she releases him.

 

He keeps digging, keeps sifting through different layers of information, keeps clenching his jaw at every dead end.  James disappears at some point to haunt the gun range and, as the night grows old, Bill’s desk to coerce him into a game of poker.  They find Eve pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, and one of the blokes from accounting that Bill claims is pleasant before commandeering a table in the kitchen.  Eve produces alcohol from _somewhere_ , and James quite nearly beams at her.

 

Q surfaces at about two, tells everyone to go home and refuses to listen to their complaints, and then reaches for his mug, glaring at it when it utterly fails him.  “Treason,” he mutters, though it’s really just a disgruntled noise as he shifts his glasses on his nose and pulls at a thread.

 

Somehow, mysteriously, it’s full the next time he forgets that he hasn’t moved to make tea, but he’s got a particular piece of code up that’s aggravating him, so he sips it without wondering too much about it.

 

At around five, James sighs at him, comes up behind him, and gently nudges the chair against his knees until Q obediently sits, still typing.  Because he’s curious, though, James steps closer, one hand brushing against Q’s jaw as he tilts his head to the side.

 

He frowns at the faded red mark on Q’s throat even as Q ducks out of his touch and straightens again, scooting closer and pulling one of his knees up to tuck in against his chest.  “Don’t let it happen again,” James says softly.

 

“It’s none of your business,” Q says, nose scrunching up as he hits a wall.

 

James’s fingers drift to the mark, press lightly against it, and Q’s fingers stutter a little, muck up the binary he’s sifting through, the first of many layers, and he grumbles a few compound expletives as he starts backpedaling.

 

“Never again,” James says, hand drifting to his shoulder and squeezing once.  Q blinks at his shoulder as James’s silent footsteps retreat.

 

A half hour later, there’s a muffin that smells and looks so heavenly that Q voluntarily reaches for it.  “Thank you,” he says as he rips off the bottom.

 

“Why?” James asks incredulously.

 

“Top tastes better,” Q says, words muffled with berries, “ _Oh_.”

 

“It’s wild berry,” James says, and then has the fucking audacity to sit on Q’s desk.  He blinks at him, distress evident on his face, so James presses a box closer to him and says, “There’s also an apple cinnamon one in there.”  Q’s distress only heightens.  James does nothing to hide his growing amusement.  “Do refrain from having a conniption, but I’ve taken the liberty to switching to coffee.”

 

“When this is over,” Q says after he swallows, “I might consider accepting your imminent dinner invitation.”

 

“Drat,” James says dryly, “I was planning on waiting until you were a little more sleep deprived.”

 

Q tears a chunk off the top of his muffin and says, with quite a few jagged edges, “That’s halfway to nonconsensual.”

 

“Oh, red lights,” James says, “Some rules are fun to play by.”

 

“You’re having a terrible idea,” Q says, body starting to angle back toward his laptop.

 

“We’re old friends,” James says quickly, recognizing that he’s about to lose him again.

 

Q waves a hand at him, James obediently retrieves the apple muffin and sets it nearby, and Q closes with, “I know you’ve been bribing the minions for information, so I intend on being difficult.”

 

“Q,” James nearly laughs, “When aren’t you difficult?”

 

He’s already gone, words falling on deaf ears as he dives back in, attacking this blasted wall with renewed vigor.

 

The minions start to filter in around 7AM, each of them bewildered by the muffin awaiting them, each their favorite flavor.  “Oh,” Nala groans when she sees Q, a small box on his desk, “And so it begins.”  When R looks over at her strangely, she clarifies, “The grand courtship of 007 and his quartermaster.”

 

“Are we calling this an official sign?” Dahlia asks even as she pulls up the betting pool they finally converted to digital during a slow week last month.

 

“That’s hardly a sign,” Arjuna says, opening his laptop, “He did leave one for each of us.”

 

“Seconded,” R agrees, “Sorry, Nala.”

 

“Fools, all of you.”

 

At hour 30, M comes down and says, “Why haven’t you found her yet?”

 

“There’s—walls and walls of— _everything_ ,” Q says, finally releasing a line of code to reach up and pluck his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes.

 

“Why weren’t you watching her?” M asks.

 

Q holds his breath, carefully lowering his hands and setting his glasses down, watching M for any signs of an impending reprimanding.  He simply waits, expression unchanging, so Q says, “She wasn’t in the field yet,” he says, “She was in her hotel room, collecting intel.  She was due to report in, and we were alerted when she missed her time.”

 

“Why weren’t you watching her?” M repeats.

 

“I had just finished booking 006’s return flight.  She went off the map without a sound.  She’s still—” Q jerks his laptop around, pointing to a small, purple dot labeled 008, “—bloody there.  If it wasn’t for the scheduled check-in, we wouldn’t have even known until this morning.”

 

M looks at the laptop screen for several moments before he lifts his gaze to Q and says, “We’ll discuss this after you’ve found our double oh.”

 

M knocks his knuckles against Q’s desk and takes his exit.  Q slumps, a fraction of exhaustion crossing his features, and Nala goes to brew his favorite black tea.

 

At hour 37, Q’s fingers careen to a halt when a clear takeaway container of _sushi_ is set on his desk.  He follows the hand that’s placed it up to find James in _jeans_ and a handsome light blue sweater.  A few distress signals are going off in his brain, but he’s on the edge of something, and all his mouth can manage to say is, “This is distracting.”

 

James grins, full of mirth, and leans forward, hands curling around the desk.  “I’d say you’re fairly sleep deprived at this point,” James says, “I propose two things.”

 

“You can have one,” Q says, forcing himself to hold James’s gaze even though this thing is itching at him, but he knows if he pulls on it, he’s going to be in deep for a while.

 

“One, let me into your flat to feed the monsters.”

 

“You did break in one time.”

 

“I’m highly suspicious of how easy it was.”

 

“It’s not designed to keep threats out as much as it is to keep them in.”

 

“Clever,” James says, “Two, dinner.  When all of this is over.”

 

Q considers.  “Both involve food,” he ends up with, pointing to his bag, “I’ll chalk it up to similar events and call it even.”

 

“Much obliged,” James says as Q turns back to his laptop and he rifles through Q’s bag, eventually coming up with a pair of keys.

 

At hour 43, Q has eyes on 008.

 

It happens without anyone to notice, in the dead hours of the night when England is sleeping.  His earlier thread had been the last one he needed to pull on, and after several long, awful hours of hacking, he was in, rooting through everything until he finally found her, bound and gagged.

 

Q uses the cameras to check the rest of the room, looking for anyone that might find it strange if she were to suddenly wake, and applies a remote and very minor shock through the smart beacon embedded in her ankle.  It’s a very young prototype that she eagerly agreed to test, and Q releases a breath he’d been holding when it works, 008 jerking awake and glaring down at her ankle.

 

He waits until realization widens her eyes, and he maybe breaks a little when her gaze whips over to the nearest camera, looking straight into it, but no one is there to see him, and he allows it.

 

Q sends another small, quick shock to confirm before he stretches his fingers and resumes.

 

Forty seconds later, he calls M.

 

“They’re going to offer us a ransom in twenty-three minutes,” Q says before M even has a chance to grumble at the late hour, “I’m looking at 008 right now.”

 

“Can you pinpoint her location?” M asks.

 

“Almost.  I’m working on it.”

 

“Who can we call in?”

 

“My answer isn’t a good one.”

 

“Bloody hell,” M groans, “Fine.  Call him.  He better not make a mess of things, Q.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Q says and hangs up, immediately dialing James next.

 

“It’s early,” James says by way of answer.

 

“Report to Q branch in an hour for mission details.”

 

“Is she alive?” James asks, and there’s a sound like sheets rustling.  Someone meows as a complaint.

 

“Are you in my bed?” Q asks, all of his other functions jarring to a halt.

 

“Keats was cross with me for trying to leave.  Focus, Q.  Is she alive?”

 

“Yes,” Q says distractedly, “There are treats in with the tea.”

 

“We found those a few hours ago,” James says before the line cuts, and Q just shakes his head in bewilderment, turning back to his laptop.

 

The ransom comes in as M is striding into his office, and Q says, “7 billion.”

 

“At least they understand she’s a dangerous catch,” M says, “Location?”

 

“Almost pinned down.  They’ve got someone in there who knows what they’re doing.”

 

“Pity they’re going against MI-6’s best weapon.”

 

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment,” Q hazards, glancing at M.

 

“Prove me right,” M says before he leaves, dialing Eve.

 

James appears twelve minutes later, and Q is just finishing up his mission file when he walks in.  “M wants to see you beforehand,” Q says without looking up, though James still sees the ghost of a smile when he sets down a small white bag.

 

He finishes typing up the file, sends it off to M, and finally straightens.  “If you blow up that building, I will set you on fire,” he says, “There is a minefield of intel in there.”

 

“Am I picking anything up?” James asks.

 

“Along with 008, an encrypted hard drive that I don’t have the time or capacity to decode right now, and possibly a person.”

 

“Humans don’t make good pets, Q,” James says.

 

“I’m aware,” Q says, “I’m not particularly fond of humans, but this one looks promising.”

 

“You’re infuriating,” James says as Q turns away, leaving his desks.

 

“You’re insufferable,” Q says cheerfully, purposefully stepping in James’s way when he makes to follow him.

 

“This is going to be fun,” James muses, smirking at his back.

 

“Oh, your bad idea again?” Q tosses over his shoulder, “Sleep deprivation is actually attempting to make me reconsider.”

 

“You say it like it’s a third party.”

 

“You were the one that slept in my bed,” Q points out, heading down the hallway toward the armory.  After 005 kept visiting the armory before Q branch and pocketing small items, M redacted access from all double oh agents, though he also granted it to R and, bizarrely, Nala.  M simply stated that if she could put up with Q and R so frequently, she was clearly trustworthy.

 

Q allows James to follow him into the armory, and they separate, James going off to peer curiously at some of the new guns the branch is working on while Q retrieves his Walther and a radio.  “If you’re pleasant and bring these back, perhaps M will reinstate you,” Q says when he hands them over.

 

“Don’t be cheeky,” James says, and Q’s laugh echoes after him when he walks away.

 

There’s an onion bagel and a chai tea in the bag, and Q grumbles about it as he finally finds a clue about their hacker.  Even with only a handful of minutes inside their systems, he knows the touch of one intimately, and, even stranger, this particular level of finesse feels familiar.

 

It takes approximately four hours and thirty-seven minutes before Q gets past their defenses.  James is about a mile outside of the compound where 008 is being held, his breaths a steady rhythm in Q’s ear that do nothing to calm him when a message pops up on his screen.

 

_King?_

 

Q stops breathing.

 

His inhale is sharp and sudden, and he holds it inside himself as he stares at the moniker.  He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t trust them with this, and so he pulls them away from his laptop, feet unraveling so that he can push away from his desk, chair rolling back.

 

“Fuck,” he exhales finally, jerking out of his seat and walking to the desk behind him, frowning at his laptop.

 

He needs help.

 

Q goes over to his bag, fishing out his phone, and Eve picks up on the second ring, “I’m on my way.”

 

“Not mission related,” Q says, “But I need you.”

 

“Shit, okay,” Eve says, and it occurs to Q, quite abruptly, that he’s never really asked Eve for help before, that he’s never burdened her with his life, but this—he can’t do this alone.  “I’ll be in Q branch in ten.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

_Please tell me it’s you._

 

“Jesus— _fuck_ ,” Q says, pacing back and forth.  He lets out an angry, clipped noise before he sits down again and flexes his fingers over the keys.

 

He sits there, unable to make a decision, until the doors open, and Eve hurries over to him.  “What’s wrong?” she says, gaze darting over his body, but Q shakes his head, finally pushing away from his desk again.

 

“I can’t do this,” he says, getting up and walking away again, folding his arms over his chest, “I can’t, Eve, I can’t do it.”

 

“What?” she says, frowning as she steps into his circle and goes over to his computer, reading.  “I don’t—”

 

Eve breaks off, and Q comes up behind her, exhaling loudly when he sees another message.

 

_That wasn’t my body they found._

 

“Oh,” Eve says because this, at least, she knows.  She knows this story from Q’s past, carefully extracted it from him one of the first nights they started trusting one another.  “Okay,” she says, straightening, “So governmentally, you need to be careful.”

 

“I know,” he says.

 

“Emotionally, you need to be careful.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I think your best course of action is not to respond.”

 

“I know,” Q says because he does, though he doesn’t want to admit to that.

 

“Reviewing all the pieces,” Eve says, “I’m going to leave and claim plausible deniability while you convince James to bring her back.”

 

Q just groans, so Eve pulls him into a tight hug and then leaves him to stare at these haunting words.

 

“Q?”  Thank god for James Bond, and  _mother of—_ Q’s angry with himself for even thinking that statement.

 

“007,” Q says, “There seems to be an issue with this channel, please hold.”  Q switches them to a private line before he continues, “Might I beg a favor of you?”

 

“Depends on my reward.”

 

“Oh, you get bloody Indian and whatever the hell else you can come up with.  Within reason,” Q adds quickly, “I will not be wooed into your bed that easily.”

 

“Q, darling,” James says lightly, “I would never have tried on a first date.  Is this about that human pet you’re after?”

 

“She’s an old friend,” Q admits, “I’d thought her dead.  I am quite pleased to find her undead, and thus would like to make her acquaintance again.”

 

“Very careful words,” James says, “It seems she’s more than just an old friend.”

 

“Don’t make me dismantle—you.”

 

“Even your threats are lacking.  I’ll make it second priority.”

 

Q hates to say it, but he has to, “Third.”

 

“Queen and country and all that jazz.”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“How charming,” James says, his voice pitching low, “Stirs quite the—approaching the compound.”

 

Q quickly directs them back to the main line and says, “I see you.  Keep in touch, if you’d be so kind.”

 

“Moneypenny says it’s not nice to speak different languages on the comms.”

 

Q coughs to cover his laugh.  “I’m sure you and Miss Moneypenny have had plenty of interesting conversations in foreign languages over the comms.”

 

“Only when she’s not shooting me.”

 

“That’s quite cold,” Q says, “She was very distraught about that.”

 

“Half a mile and closing.”

 

“Even I can run faster than that.”

 

James pointedly does not pick up his speed.  Q smirks at the screen.

 

_King, please._

 

His smirk disappears as the newest message pops up, and he forces himself to look away.

 

_Say something.  Anything.  Just tell me it’s really you._

 

“007, do hurry this along.  I’d like to sleep at some point.”

 

“So demanding,” James sighs dramatically, “Entrance.”

 

“The front door’s unlocked.”

 

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” James says, and then he’s shouldering open the front door, and thus it begins.  He leads James through a complex route, listens to him shoot and fight and run, brings him down deep into the building, through a network of tunnels, and hacks into 008’s room, grinning when he finds the door is operated electronically.

 

“008’s at the end of the hall, but please refrain from running to her aid just yet.”

 

“Why, Q, you wonderful fiend,” James says when the door shatters apart.

 

008 is halfway out of her bindings when James steps through the smoke, winking at her after he’s checked and cleared the room.  He helps her out and up, offering an arm, but she just rolls her eyes and reaches underneath his jacket for one of the guns tucked into his shoulder holster.

 

“008’s frisking me,” he reports.

 

“Move along now, kids,” Q says, “The house is starting to wake up.”

 

Q leads them up a flight and to the right, through a haze of bullets, and into a room with a single laptop and a woman chained to a chair, only her hands free so that she can type, a glass wall separating them.

 

“Q?” James says, holding his aim while 008 circles the room.

 

“You’ll have to describe it to me.”

 

“What does your human pet look like?”

 

Q blinks, fingers pausing.  “I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve never met her in person.”

 

“Any clues?” James asks, stepping forward.

 

“I called her Duchess, and she called me King.”

 

James steps forward, raps one knuckle against the wall, and watches the woman flinch, though she doesn’t look up.  “We’re in the room with the encrypted drive,” James says, “Right?”

 

“You should be, yes,” Q says, “Is she—is she there?”

 

“Can you get us inside?  There’s a door and a glass wall separating us.”

 

Q doesn’t respond, but James can hear him typing, and that’s all that matters.  008 comes to stand next to him and nods to the woman.  “Does Q have any idea what’s going on here, why this girl is here?”

 

“No,” James says, “But she’s coming with us.”

 

She’s staring at them now, with the same icy blue eyes that James so often pins on Q.  Her blonde hair is dirty and hangs limp around her jaw, but James can see the weight of wild curls in it.  She’s dressed in rags, thin bones peering out from beneath skin so pale that he wonders when she last saw the sun.

 

“Open,” Q says at the same time there’s an unholy noise shattering against the door behind them.

 

“I got it,” 008 says, and James nods once before jogging toward the door, yanking it open.

 

The woman’s expression betrays nothing, but James can see terror in the set of her shoulders.  “I’m a friend of King’s,” James says, and she transforms.  It is a paper thin mask to begin with, but now, her bone-tired exhaustion and fear is vibrant, as is a beacon-bright hope that James finds comforting.

 

“Take me to him?” she asks, and James nods once, coming over to her now that he’s sure she won’t react badly.

 

“Q, I’m at the computer,” he says, waiting.

 

“It’s small, barely noticeable.  She—Grace might know where it is.”

 

“Grace?” James says, turning to her.

 

“Oh god, is that him?” she asks, “Q?  Is that what he calls himself now?”

 

“Can you locate the encrypted hard drive?”

 

Grace lets out a harsh laugh.  “I swallowed it.”

 

James bites back a grin.  “Q,” he says, “It’s evident why you’re friends.”

 

“Fucking hell,” Q says, his voice heavy, “Get her out of there.   _Please_.”

 

James kneels, sighing when he sees that they’re just zip ties.  He doesn’t have to think too hard about what other methods they probably used to keep her in here.  Once she’s free, James leads her out of the room and onto the other side.

 

“I can walk,” she says, stepping away from him, “It hurts, but I can hold my own.”

 

“Stay between us,” 008 says, glancing at her and then to James, “It’s quiet.”

 

“Q, exit,” James says.

 

They survive.

 

Q gets them out, James hotwires a jeep in the garage, which they ditch when they’re a mile out from the airport.  Q’s done some seriously sketchy maneuvering and gotten them on a flight leaving in thirty minutes, which they barely arrive in time for.  008 steals a long coat from a shop, hands it to Grace, and then frowns at James.

 

“Q’s one of those clever assholes,” James says, and, true to his word, no alarms go off when he steps through the detector and is passed over with a wand.

 

As they’re boarding, James says quietly, “Q, we’re safe.  007 signing off.”

 

“Q signing off,” he replies, and then the line goes dead.

 

Once they’ve found their seats, Grace between James and 008, Grace relaxes a little, exhaling as she sinks back into her seat.  “How long were you there?” 008 asks.

 

“Years,” Grace says, “We’ve moved a lot.  Spain was the longest—two years.  They’ve been trying to get their hands on something for a while, something big.  I think it was you, wherever you’re from.”

 

008 nods.  “And you know our Q?”

 

“I did,” she says, “A long time ago.  They killed me, dressed up a body and everything.  They brought me to my funeral, made me watch my own mum cry over a false grave.  I—god, it makes me sick because it wasn’t awful.  They were almost kind to me.”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“More often than not, I was allowed to live.  I had my own flat, I bought my own groceries, I even had a bird once.  It felt like going to work.  For so long, it was as normal as it could be.  Spain was what changed everything.  Where are we going?”

 

“England,” James says, and his tone is sharp in a way that ends all possible conversation.

 

——

 

It takes all of Q’s willpower not to immediately abandon his post and seek out Grace when they arrive at MI-6.  He knows it’s useless to try regardless, this reinforced when Eve informs him, “They’ve given her a room in the psych ward, but she’s not allowed visitors yet.”  Q nods robotically, not looking up from his laptop, and Eve frowns, reaching a hand forward to touch his wrist lightly.  “Are you going to be okay?”

 

Q twists out from under her touch before he meets her gaze.  “Of course,” he says, “Please let M know he has my word I won’t try to get in there.  I know that’s what brought you down here.”

 

Eve sighs, but nods, and as she leaves, James enters, tapping his fingers against Q’s desk before he sets the encrypted hard drive down before him.  When Q reaches for it, his fingers linger, holding it against the desk.  Q looks up, holds his sharp blue gaze while he waits.

 

“Dinner and sleep,” he says, “Before.”

 

There’s a small, unsubtle noise from Q’s right, and he quite nearly turns to make a face at R’s disbelief, and while R might accuse him of accepting purely to prove him wrong, Q’s eyes are burning with lack of sleep, and his stomach reminds him how little he’s eaten in the last 48 or so hours.

 

“Just that?” he asks.

 

“Just that,” James promises, “But now.”

 

“R, you have first,” he says, already turning to collect his things, “If M comes looking, I’ve taken the hard drive with me.”

 

“He does love when you thieve company property.”

 

Q does make a face at him now, and R just grins, looking back to his laptop.  Q closes up the hard drive with his laptop, looks around, and frowns at how at ease his department appears.  Nala and Keira are having a heated discussion about something, Arjuna and two other men are crowded around his laptop, and he definitely recognizes a few expressions as carefully schooled while they sneak playing computer games.

 

“Hack challenge,” he announces as he comes around his desk.

 

James takes his offered messenger bag as Q throws on his parka.  Every set of eyes has turned toward him, and a few look apologetic.  “I will be offline until tomorrow morning, at the earliest,” he says, and Nala grins something wicked, “Trip an alarm, and you will be disqualified.  Get caught by any employee outside of Q branch, and you will be disqualified.  Pair up, and you will be disqualified.  This is a solo run to test your competency, though I don’t expect many of you to get through.  Rules understood?  Nala, you have reinforcement.  Discuss amongst yourselves a reasonable reward.  Keira will have final ruling on what is to be considered reasonable.”

 

Half the branch is already typing, and Q grins before he takes his messenger bag and says, “Are you coming?”

 

They’re about three minutes away from MI-6 when James asks, “And what, pray tell, was that?”

 

Q waves a hand vaguely, finishing off a last email before he pockets his phone.  “They looked content,” he says, “Like today wasn’t difficult.  They need a little humiliation once in a while.”

 

“Ah,” James says, “So they’re hacking into  _your_  files?”

 

“They’re trying to,” Q says, flashing him a grin, “You don’t approve?”

 

“Quite the contrary,” James says, “Just reinforces the evil mastermind fantasy.”

 

“Fantasy!” Q laughs, huddling deeper into his parka, “Shall I acquire a spinning chair and use one of the cats as my familiar?”

 

James’s laugh is small but there when he replies, “Keats, certainly.  Joyce looks too loving.”

 

“When quite the opposite is true.  She has her moments, though.”

 

“She seems to dote on Keats quite a bit.  I admit, I never pegged you for a bibliophile.”

 

“Come now,” Q teases, leaning his temple against the headrest as he looks over at James, “That can’t be true.”

 

“Given your position,” James says, not taking his eyes off the road, “I imagined everything would be digitized.”

 

“Progress is not always perfect, 007,” Q muses, and though he falls quiet for a moment, it’s a comfortable, companionable quiet.  “Think of the possibilities, too,” Q says, straightening before he brings his legs up, folding them over each other, “Bashing someone over the head with a 600-page _tome_ , essentially, or a flimsy tablet.”

 

“I highly doubt your tablet is flimsy.”

 

“Beside the point,” Q says, “They’ve come out with all sorts of gizmos for anti-glare, which is pitiful considering a book produces no glare.  Though, I admit I am partial to that glass weight that holds the book open in the shape of a book.  Genius, truly.”

 

“For outside readers?  Do you even dare?”

 

“I enjoy a nice frolic under the sun as much as you might,” Q says, “Just because my office is in a dungeon doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy being in one with windows.”

 

“Q branch with windows,” James says, looking over at him.

 

Q nods solemnly.  “Fair point,” he says, “Treacherous idea.  Imagine the things the birds would see.  Spy carrier pigeons.   _Oh_.”

 

“Ludicrous, don’t do it,” James says, smiling at the windshield.

 

“But imagine the uses,” Q says, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his thigh, “Biometric implants to record and gain access.  Oh!  The cats!”

 

“I’m fairly certain this is the line of thought that produces the memos sent out from psych.”

 

“Oh, they hate us,” Q says, “R and I always muck up our psych evals on purpose now.”

 

“Not Nala?” James asks.

 

“Nala is the very bane of my existence.”

 

“Meaning she follows protocol?”

 

“To the letter,” Q groans despairingly, “Unless, of course, a directive comes from her superior, and then she’s all set to ready, aim, fire.”

 

“Her superior being you?”

 

“We work in espionage, James, do be discreet,” Q chastises, and James can’t help, he really can _not_ —he laughs, loud and clear, and the resulting smile that stretches Q’s mouth is more than worth it.

 

He lets himself, too, gives way to a moment where happiness is a truth, and then asks, “Is this sleep deprived Q, or just Q?”

 

“Just Q,” he says, “Certainly, the sleep deprivation helps, but when you’re not fucking up every mission possible, we’re rather delightful in the dungeon.”

 

“It does certainly look like a dungeon upon approach.”

 

“The plants help once you’re inside.”

 

“M seems fond of them.”

 

“He adores the cypress,” Q says, “Good choice.”

 

“So you knew it was me, then?” James asks, glancing at him to find Q rolling his eyes.

 

“You’re very predictable, James,” he says, “Words, tea, and plants.  These are three of my favorite things.”

 

Their conversation continues on a similar vein until James is parking outside of Q’s favorite Indian restaurant, to which he beams brightly about, and once they’re seated and have ordered drinks, James says, “I propose a game.”

 

“Do tell me this involves three things and sometimes a truth,” Q says, not looking up from his menu.

 

“However did you guess?”

 

“Funnily enough, you seemed far too busy and indifferent about life to fancy something like a TV series,” Q says, turning the page, “But then Nala pointed out that you once sent a tea that tasted suspiciously like I’ve always imagined Sunspear might.”

 

“I’m a season behind, admittedly,” James says.

 

“We’ll have to get you caught up, then,” Q says, and it’s not the promise of something more that settles warmly in James, but rather the idea of something more not revolving around sex.  “Three things,” Q says, “Truth, half-truth, and a lie.”

 

“Go on, then,” James says when he doesn’t continue.

 

“Traitor,” Q accuses, “I am an only child.  I have been to jail.  I stole government funds from the NSA to buy my current laptop.”

 

“Oh, we’re starting off good,” James says, finally opening his menu.  He starts browsing as he mulls his three things over, and after they’ve placed their order, he says, “Truth.  You’re a danger to society, so you’ve definitely been to jail.  Half-truth, you’re an only child, orphaned both in parents and siblings.  Lie, you stole government funds from the NSA.  Even you’re not that daft, Q.”

 

When Q lifts an eyebrow in response, James remains neutral, simply reaching for his wine.  “I have been to jail,” Q says, “A few times.  Unpleasant, really.  I did steal government funds, but it was from MI-6.  I am not an only child.”

 

“Curious,” James says, “Do I get hints?”

 

“Three brothers,” Q says, “Let your imagination run wild.  Your turn.”

 

James considers how much he’s willing to tell Q, but he has an inkling that learning about his brothers is something Q did not let go of lightly, and so he says, “My last lover drowned.  I haven’t played poker since Le Chiffre.  I detest children.”

 

“Not so clever as you would like,” Q says, “Truth.  Though I resent being referred to as a lover, I am quite aware of those details, though, admittedly, her name has been redacted from all reports.  Half-truth, you have played poker, but you’ve never forgotten him.  You always think someone is waiting to poison you.  Lie, I was there in France, I saw what you did with that lost boy.”

 

“Her name was Vesper,” James says without preamble.

 

Q recognizes, immediately, the magnitude of this confession.  Their waiter chooses that moment to appear, bringing naan bread and several sauces.  “Thank you,” Q says, smiling pleasantly.  When he’s gone, Q reaches for a piece of bread, tears off a chunk, and says, “Mine is Rowan.”

 

“Rowan,” James says, his voice curling decadently around the name.

 

“Forget it quickly,” Q says, watching the request startle a smile out of James.

 

“Of course,” James says, “ _Q_.”

 

The night carries on.  They evidently decide that one another are worth exploring, for Q tells him stories about his brothers, and James tells him about his parents.  Later, when James is parking outside their building, Q says, “I would invite you in, but I’m asleep on my feet.”

 

“A shared bed is a warm one,” James says.

 

Q unravels that a little slower than he would normally, but, eventually, he says, “You’ll have to fight Keats and Joyce for space.”

 

“To war, then,” James quips, and that’s how they end up falling asleep inches from each other.  Q attempts valiantly to stay awake for more than three seconds, but as soon as he’s under the duvet and Keats is curled up against his side, he’s gone.

 

James expects to see the sunrise, golden light filtering in through the curtains.  He’s never been good at sleeping in the vicinity of someone else, and yet, when he wakes, early morning has long since passed.

 

When Q wakes, James is still asleep, which is a surprise in and of itself.  He’s on his side, half his face lost in the pillow and his knees tucked in a little, Joyce sleeping in the curve of his legs over the duvet.  He has one hand outstretched, filling some of the gap between them, fingers relaxed and pliant when Q picks up his hand and turns it over, tracing the lines in his palm.

 

This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea that probably equals danger somewhere down the line.  He says as much when he looks up and finds James looking at him through sleepy, warm blue eyes.

 

“Old friends,” James murmurs, “I’d say you’re well acquainted with bad ideas, as well.”

 

“Traitorously so,” Q says before rolling over onto his back and stretching, shushing Keats when he complains.

 

“Were the minions successful?”

 

Q reaches over for his phone, making a noise about the time before he taps into his secure network.  He smirks as he sees something from R, and he turns back onto his side as he types,  _Success is not accepted if it comes about by means of cheating._

 

R’s response is instant,  _You have to at least give credit where credit’s due._

_Congratulations, I told you one of my passwords for a sublevel in case you ever needed access for emergency-related events.  Step up your game, R.  Hack challenge ensues.  No one else has gotten in._

_Two of them really thought they had, and Nala tried to tell them that you have a dummy drive, but they wouldn’t believe her until now.  They’re furious._

 

Q laughs before sliding his phone under his pillow and saying, “Technically, R got in, but through a loophole.”

 

“That counts,” James says.

 

“I gave him the loophole.”

 

“That doesn’t.  Q?”

 

“James,” Q says around a yawn.  The look on James’s face lets him know that he should be paying attention, and so he slides one foot across the bed and rests it lightly against his shin.  “I know,” Q says, “I am your quartermaster, after all.”

 

“Oh, public indecency is a must,” James says.

 

“If you lay hands on me while I’m at work, I will give you an exploding pen without telling you.”

 

“That’s cruel,” James says even as he pushes up onto one elbow and leans over, pausing a breath away.

 

“Perhaps I already have,” Q says, tucking an arm beneath him so he can get rid of this damned distance between them.  It’s chaste in a way Q wasn’t quite expecting, soft and warm, just something to start his morning with, like sunlight pooling through his veins and lingering there.

 

He hums when James releases him, and he’s an inhale away from reaching for him when there’s a clamor outside his door.  Q blinks.  “What day is it?” he asks.

 

“Sunday,” James says, and then guesses, “Brunch with your brothers?”

 

“Eve?” Q says even as he throws back the duvet and gets out of bed.  He makes a grab for his phone, opening it to find a message from Shae,  _wake up, you lazy daisy!_   Q points the phone at him and says, “Promise to behave?”

 

“Terrible track record of keeping promises, unfortunately,” James says as he reaches behind him for Joyce, carefully picking her up.

 

“Omelets,” Q demands as he heads for the door.

 

“Of course, darling,” James says, and Q does not, absolutely  _does not_ , smile himself stupid when he sees James press a small kiss to Joyce’s head when she meows in protest at being moved.

 

“Kept us waiting long enough,” Connor practically shouts when Q pulls open the door, and then they’re inside, bustling past him and upending things on the island.

 

“Pay up, I was right,” Desmond says when he opens the fridge, “No food.  You’re lucky we’ve done the shopping.”

 

“I’ve been at work for the last 48 hours,” Q says, snatching a nectarine from one of the bags, “Quick aside.  I have company.”

 

And then he disappears back into his room, making for the closet.  “Company?” Connor echoes, following him in, gaze shifting quickly to James, who is still in bed and obediently petting Joyce.  “Oh, I like this one better than the last one,” he says, turning to Q, “He was a right wanker.”

 

“You never met Aidan,” Q says before he strips out of his shirt, and James’s hand pauses on Joyce, blatantly staring at him.

 

“Oi!” Connor says loudly, “When did you get that?”

 

“What?”

 

“Space, dude,” Connor says as he comes over, one hand landing on Q’s left shoulder to twist him away as he inspects the geometric pattern of planets curving around his side and up around his shoulder, finishing in a burst of erratic lines meant to symbolize the sun at the back of his neck.

 

“It’s a work in progress,” Q says, stepping out from under him, “I’ve been going back again.”

 

“It looks amazing,” Connor says, “Mum would’ve loved it.”

 

Q laughs outright.  “Lies do not become us,” he says, and Connor grins at him before he heads for the door.

 

“You staying for brunch?” he directs to James when he reaches the doorway.

 

“If I’m allowed,” James says easily, looking away from Q and to his brother.

 

Connor shrugs.  “Do you work with him?” he asks.

 

“Closely,” James says.

 

Connor smiles.  “You’re already a step ahead, then.  Listen,” he adds when Q starts to protest, “I was sick of hearing about Aidan giving you shit for not telling him what you did.  If this bloke knows, then we’re off to a good start, I’d say.  You kill people?” he directs to James, who blinks at him, “Right.  Confidential shit and all.  Is anyone making eggs in this goddamn house?” he yells the last bit to everyone.

 

Q is not long after him, joining his brothers dressed in a NASA shirt and pants that James might argue with him later over them being leggings, though Q will throw a screwdriver at him and remind him that he needs to be agile when he’s handling dangerous tech, and James will hide his grin in Q’s side.

 

He doesn’t know when this happened, when he didn’t panic at the thought of brunch with someone’s family, when he allowed himself to smile openly and shower love upon felines, but somewhere in all of it, James is not sure he’s upset about all of this, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the real reason I separated this into three chapters rather than posted this as a oneshot is purely because of this part. This fucking 30k piece. Jeez, look at this thing, it's ridiculous.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed, and make sure to keep an eye out next Friday for the final installment. Thank you so much, and don't forget to leave your thoughts!


	3. après

_You make your way into my veins._

 

It’s raining when Q is given access to the psych ward.

 

A month has passed in the time since James stole Grace out of that heinous place, and though Q fought loudly after a week of accepting he wouldn’t be able to see her yet, M had remained steadfast.  Now, exactly twenty-nine days have passed when Q receives the message.  James is lingering at his elbow, listening to Q ramble on about the new side project he’s working on, and sipping _his_ tea, though Q steals it occasionally, when a little box pops up in the corner of one of his screens.

 

“Oh,” is what he manages to say when he reads it.

 

James leans, just enough to not cause suspicion, and frowns into the mug before handing it over and telling him, “Be careful.”  He doesn’t ask him if he wants company or if he’ll be okay, and really, Q thinks, that’s one of the top reasons why this is working.

 

He’s not particularly clear on what _this_ is, but James has attended two Sunday brunches with his brothers now, wooed them with incredible food, not reprimanded Q for not sleeping, kept him fed and watered with delicious takeaway and even better tea, and been at the height of professionalism in the office, and all of it amounts to the fact that Q’s stomach doesn’t drop quite so far when he imagines the prospect of seeing Grace again, after all these years, because he knows everything that will be waiting for him on the other side.

 

He does, however, get a text from Eve and is immensely grateful for it.  _Do you want me to come with?_

 

 _No_ , he types back, _It’s okay.  Thank you._

 

Q is acutely aware of the little dots signifying that Eve has more to say, and while he’s almost positive that she wants to ask if James is the one accompanying him, they haven’t quite crossed that topic yet, and he would rather not over text.

 

 _If you change your mind, I’m here_ , is what comes out, though, and Q exhales relief.

 

“Nala,” he says, standing, “You have first.  Please check up on R in two hours if I’m not back.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she says without looking up.

 

Q lingers, closing out his programs, saving a piece of code he’s working on, tugging at the sleeve of his cardigan, and making a new cup of tea before Nala says, “Q, go away,” and he flashes her a smile that looks a little sadistic, to which she widens her eyes and turns back to her laptop.

 

The psych ward is pristine.  Q’s only been here a handful of times.  When he was first promoted, they made him come back monthly until he started misbehaving, and now, he only visits once a year for regular maintenance.  He checks in, is told to wait, and, before long, is led out of the lobby and through a series of twisting hallways that he memorizes before they stop outside a door.

 

Grace’s doctor opens and closes his mouth several times before Q gives up on him and lets himself in.  The doctor doesn’t follow, and it speaks volumes about how much they’ve come to trust him despite his actions.  He has, admittedly, never once done anything outwardly rude, but he finds psych evals boring and does his best to keep entertained.

 

Inside, Grace is at a desk, reading.  Her hair sits in tight, wild blonde curls, and she looks considerably healthier than what he’d been picturing.  When she hears the door open, she doesn’t move, simply keeps reading, and Q is unsure of how to proceed.

 

“I’m to be escorted out tomorrow,” Grace says evenly, “Sedated and left in a flat somewhere.”  Q frowns.  He knew that this was what they would do, but it makes it no less difficult to hear.  “I understand, of course,” she says, closing her book and turning to him, fixing her pale blue eyes on him, “I only wish you’d come to visit sooner.”

 

“I wasn’t allowed,” Q says.

  
Grace laughs, sharp and awful, and Q’s frown deepens.  “Wasn’t allowed,” she parrots, “Please, you’ve broken into this place so many times, I think it was something much more personal keeping you at bay.”

 

“Grace—”

 

“Oh, we’re on a first name basis now?  What do I call you, Q?”

 

Q steps forward.  “My name is—”

 

“I don’t want to know your name,” Grace snaps, “And I’d prefer it if you didn’t use mine.  We grew up on monikers, King and Duchess, you and I.  Why would you think it’s okay for you to call me Grace, now that you know?  How do you even know?  Did you hack into all my files after you thought I was dead?”

 

“Your mother told me,” Q says, “She called.  She found our conversations, and she said you used to talk about me.”

 

“Of course she did,” Grace says, shaking her head, “She was always one for meddling.”

 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Q admits, coming forward again.

 

Grace holds up a hand.  “That’s far enough,” she says, “Why didn’t you come visit?”

 

Q starts to fold his arms across his chest, thinks about what they’re always saying about body language, and links his hands together behind his back.  He refrains from rocking on the balls of his feet, though his body is aching to move, to not be trapped in this moment.  “I’m not the same,” he says, “Things are—different.  I work here.  I can’t just—I’m not going to hack into my own security.  That would be foolish.”

 

“It’s foolish to want to visit a friend you thought dead?”

 

“M asked me not to,” Q says, an edge creeping into his voice, “He is my boss, and I respect him.”

 

“What have you been doing, then, for the past month?  Have you thought about me at all?  Or were you upstairs laughing with your boyfriend while they were poking and prodding down here?  Isn’t it a little too cruel to lock someone in a sterile room after they’ve been kept caged half their lives?”

 

“Please,” Q says, releasing his hands and stepping forward again, “Don’t talk to me like I’m not aware of everything that was happening down here.  I know that you had free reign.  I know what notes your doctors were taking.  Why do you think you have books?”

 

Grace flinches, her shoulders sagging as she sinks back a little.  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, lowering her gaze, “I’m sorry.”

 

“No,” Q says, shaking his head, “Don’t be.  I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and for them to just—drop you off somewhere tomorrow is—it’s barbaric.”

 

Grace smiles up at him, this tiny quirk of her mouth.  “They said it’s near your place, actually.”

 

Q brightens.  “Where?”  She gives him the address, and Q nearly beams.  “That’s my building,” he says, “I live on the third floor.”

 

“I’m on the fifth,” she says, “Is it nice there?”

 

“Incredibly.  You’ll love it.”

 

Grace falls quiet, watching him, and Q waits until she finally inhales, nods, and asks, “What do I call you now?”

 

“Q,” he says, “I haven’t been King for a long time.”

 

——

 

“South America,” James repeats three weeks later, “You have an evil streak, Q.”

 

“Just a streak?” Q says, grinning at his laptop, “I thought there was a whole evil mastermind fantasy.”

 

“Yes, it involves spinning chairs and a familiar.”

 

“How quaint.”

 

“At least tell me the weather report is good,” James says, tapping his desk.

 

Q pulls it up, laughs, and says cheerily, “94 and sunny.”

 

“Christ,” James groans, “Where exactly in South America?”

 

“That’s confidential,” Q says, returning to the file he’s tapping up, “It’s close to the equator.”

 

“Bastard.”

 

“Safe travels.  Your file’s been uploaded to your mobile.  Do try to return everything in one piece, 007.  I don’t fancy recreating the same Walther over and over again,” he says, trying to sigh begrudgingly at him, but James is looking at him with eyes that smile like he’s trapped the sun.

 

“You could be more creative with your designs,” James says, “Rather than simply recreating.”

 

“Oh, don’t be cheeky now, too,” Q says, turning away from him to retrieve his equipment.  When he turns back, Eve has just clicked in, and he flashes her a quick smile before setting a small box on the desk.  He flattens a hand over it, mouth quirking as he says, voice dropped low, “This is for behaving with my brothers.”

 

James’s gaze transforms, the fondness replaced by mirth as he takes the box from Q and opens it.  “Oh darling,” he drawls when Eve stops at Q’s station, “You shouldn’t have.  Fraternization and all.”

 

Q laughs at him.  “When I start fraternizing with you, Bond, it’ll be a cold day in hell.”

 

“94 and sunny,” James echoes, closing the box, “Do try not to seduce someone while I’m gone.”

 

“Do try not to bleed all over my sofa when you return.  Eve,” he switches, turning to her.

 

James is gone before Eve can comment on anything, and so instead, she says, “Your girlfriend is at the front door.”

 

Q blinks.  “A lot of that sentence didn’t make sense,” he admits.

 

“Grace,” she says, “is knocking on the big door.”

 

“The tunnel door?”

 

“Quite.”

 

“Well, that’s—disturbing,” Q says, stepping toward one of his laptops, “How did she find us?”  He pulls up one of the cameras he has embedded into the brickwork surrounding the door, making an irritable noise when he finds Grace standing there with her arms crossed.

 

“Did you happen to mention where you worked?” Eve says.

 

“Never,” Q says quickly, “Not even the area.  We honestly don’t really see each other that much.  If I’m not at work, she’s at work.  She works nights somewhere.  Eve, I swear,” he adds at her expression, “I don’t know how she got here.”

 

“Well,” Eve says, “You’re not going down there, so do you have her number?”

 

Q’s already halfway there, tapping into a private line while his earbud rings.  Finally, she picks up.  “Let me in,” she says by way of greeting.

 

“Absolutely not,” Q says, “You know I can’t.”

 

“This is absurd,” she snaps, “I have so many questions, and no one will answer them.  You can’t just expect me to go back to my normal life after all of this.”

 

“Have you been seeing the psychiatrist that M appointed?”

 

“She was a waste of time,” Grace says, “All of this is.  I want to be in there, helping you find the people who took me, and making a difference in the world.”

 

“Grace—”

 

“I want a letter,” she talks over him, “I want to erase it all.  I don’t want to be Grace anymore.  I want to be behind a computer again.”

 

Q considers it.  He has considered it, has sat up late typing out emails to M that he inevitably deletes, has curled up against James’s side and rambled about it until he was just going in circles, has even turned it on Eve, desperate for a reason why letting her in is a good idea, and the consensus is always the same.  It’s _not_ a good idea.

 

“Go home, Grace,” he says.

 

“God _damn_ it, King!” she yells, banging an open palm against the door, “Come out and face me if you’re going to say that.  At least let me talk to him, make my case.  You can’t make this decision for me.  It’s not right.”

 

“Don’t let her know anything,” Eve says quietly.

 

“Q,” Grace says, softening her voice.

 

“I’ll talk to M,” Q says before he ends the call.

 

“Q—”

 

“What else am I supposed to do?”  Q turns to Eve.  “If my life had been turned upside down like that, and then I wasn’t allowed near anything more than basic technology, it would not end well.  I can absolutely see where she’s coming from.”

 

“But letting her work here?” Eve says, “So close to you, and all of this, everything you’ve worked toward?”

 

“She has the same skillset as me,” Q argues, “She could be an asset.”

 

“Or a distraction.”

 

“She has valuable information about the enemy.  We could take great strides toward shutting down a huge operation.”

 

“Or she could be a mole.”  Eve waits, watching Q refuse to show any reaction toward that accusation.  “I know,” she says finally, “I know that you’ve been thinking it, that you’re afraid to admit it out loud.  All of us have been careful not to say it around you, but it’s a suspicion even M has, _especially M_ , and you know, even if, by some miracle, M let her in, she would never be given clearance to Q branch.  Never.”

 

“I know,” Q says, “But what are my other options?  She’s my best friend, Eve.”

 

“Is she still?” she asks, “Do you actually know that girl out there?”

 

“I have to try, for her sake,” Q says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“I think you will be.”

 

Eve turns to go, and Q waits until she’s nearly at the door before he says, “Eve.  Tonight?”

 

She smiles, a small, careful thing.  “Only if you’re cooking.”

 

Q fires off a fast email to M, only reading it a second time to check for spelling errors.  _Grace is adamant on receiving an interview.  I will not vouch for her character as the person I know died a decade ago, though her efficiency with a laptop is notable.  I am not asking that you give her the time, simply acknowledging that she is asking for it._

 

The response he receives three minutes later opens a pit of dread in his stomach.  _I’ll have someone bring her up._

 

——

 

“9 _8_ and sunny,” James corrects several hours later, after it all.

 

After—after M has a four-hour long discussion with Grace that culminates in a position in one of the branches Q started in that is located quite a few floors above Q branch.  He starts setting up firewalls immediately, though he cannot identify why Grace working in the same building as him is causing so much turmoil, but he’s given ample time to test out his firewalls when she tries to visit him, an alarm sounds through his watch, and the elevators are disabled.  She finds his work email, sends him a virus that trips one of his lesser systems, and maintains a smile in her voice when he calls her.  He doesn’t report it.

 

After—after 003 loses his target and spends an hour chasing a cold lead before he finally calls in _on a payphone_ , and Q has to swallow an insufferable sigh when 003 relays everything to him.  He spends the next forty minutes hacking through CCTV, pinpointing a vague area, sneaking into a satellite to tap into someone’s personal cell phone, catching a promising phrase said by a passerby and following that to a warehouse where he hacks into the only computer in the building, rigs it to listen through the speakers, and calls 003 back only for him to say, “Sorry for the trouble, I’ve found it.  Going in.”  Q unclenches his fist and focuses his energy on the file he’s been trying to get into all morning, but then 003 gets captured, and he’s occupied for the next two hours.

 

After—after dinner with Eve and finally telling her about James, she admits that she had 99% confirmed it anyway, and really, it was old news.  Even Bill has begun suspecting it.  She makes him tell her all the tiny details, though, and while he enjoys it, his head is starting to ache when she reaches for the second bottle of wine, and he has to tell her that he’s crashing, so she leaves him with a kiss and a promise to behave.  He smiles tiredly at her.

 

“I never said the IQ of the weather report was particularly outstanding,” Q says as he transfers the call to an earbud and gets into bed.

 

“I’ve always been fonder of astronomy than meteorology regardless,” James says, “Are you still at work?”

 

“In bed, actually,” Q says, tugging the duvet up toward his shoulder, “Long day at the office.”

 

“Tell me about it?” James frames it like a question, and Q finds himself unwinding, telling him all his woes, and James responds in like, agreeing with his points on Grace while still making a noise of frustration over him not reporting the virus, informing him that M is thinking about hiring agents to fill 004 and 005’s empty spots, which Q quietly ignores, and not feigning his surprise that Eve didn’t know, for he’s already told Bill.

 

“I would call you a name,” Q says around a yawn, “But I’m wasting away.”

 

“It’s a tedious phrase, but I wish I was there with you.”

 

Q’s body alights with warmth, spreading throughout him at the thought of James admitting that.  He conceals a happy noise, shifts, and says, “Reverse reaction, apparently.”

 

“I was intending to get you hard,” James says easily, “And though I do enjoy a good stab at phone sex, a beautiful woman has just walked past me twice clad in barely a bikini.”

 

“I do think she’s flirting with you,” Q says, “Anything particularly interesting?”

 

“Indeed,” James nearly purrs, “Think of me.”

 

“Fondly,” Q says, and he’s asleep before the calls cuts out.

 

——

 

Q’s in the Aston Martin, typing furiously on the laptop balanced on his knees, when he receives an incoming call from Desmond.

 

“Des, are you okay?” Q asks because it’s four in the morning, and James looks over in concern.

 

“Are _you_ okay?” Desmond responds, “The sky is on fucking _fire_.  Where are you?”

 

“On my way to work,” Q says, “We’re working on it.”

 

“Jesus, is James with you?”

 

Q bites back a smile and says, “He’s driving.”

 

“Thank Christ.  Con—he’s not on the tube.”

 

“Mother of—Rowan, seriously,” Connor’s voice drifts over, “Tell that man I love him.  Do you remember that time he took the tube in at two in the morning while there were just—terrorists afoot?”

 

“I really think that was said in bad form,” Q says, “Besides, I’m fairly certain I can handle a few terrorists.”  James laughs humorlessly beside him.  “Regardless,” Q continues, successfully getting in under the first curtain of blockades, “James is a masochistic driver.”

 

James takes the next turn rather sharply to prove his point, and Q holds onto his laptop rather than the seat, sliding precariously across it so that James’s humorless laugh bleeds into something bordering on mirth.

 

“ _Shae_ is a masochistic driver,” Desmond says, “My children are forbidden in his car.”

 

“For good reason,” Q says, “I refuse.”

 

“Listen!” Shae shouts from somewhere.

 

“Are you all at yours?” Q asks, “Did you really convene upon one place?”

 

“The whole family,” Desmond says, “Connor showed up first, nearly knocked down the front door.”

 

“We’ve all been calling,” Connor says, “You’re a hard man to reach.”

 

“On purpose,” Q says, “Stay inside.  _Please_.”

 

“Lock the doors, Shae!” Connor yells.

 

“Yes, because that’ll help against the terrorists,” Desmond grumbles.

 

“Let’s come up with a different word,” Q implores, “Hea—”

 

“If you say heathens,” Shae says, “We’ll all skin you alive.  Find a new swear word.”

 

“Well, if the shoe fits,” Q says, “I’m at work.  I’ll check in later.”  Q starts to reach for the door, but the lock snaps down, and he sighs, starting to put away his things while he waits for James to get out and check that they’re safe.  “Have you quite finished putting me in the damsel slot for the night?” Q asks when James opens his door.

 

“Shut up,” he says, “and get inside.”

 

They arrive together, neither of them thinking about the consequences when Q enters his branch wearing leggings—they’ve finally agreed on this, and James has stopped laughing at him—a sweatshirt bearing the House Stark emblem, red Converse, and his hair in a right state of _chaos_.  James looks hardly any more put together in fitted jeans, a neatly ironed white shirt, _boat shoes_ —Q is still making comments about them and will never stop—and a hastily plucked sweatshirt, which turned out to be one of Q’s and sports the Ares III mission logo on the back.

 

M notices immediately.

 

“Bloody hell,” he mutters when he spots them coming down the hall, Q typing on his phone and James casually steering him out of the way of a person with a hand on his lower back.  “Bloody fucking _hell_ ,” he says again when they walk in, and Eve looks away from her phone to lift an eyebrow at him.  “I never saw this,” he says to her.

 

“There is nothing—oh, yes, that’s definitely Q’s sweatshirt, sorry.”

 

Q looks up, gaze sweeping around the room, and then back down at his phone.  James follows him as far as Nala’s desk and then stops, leaning against it.  “What?” Nala says without looking up.

 

“If you collect a food order, I’ll disappear.”

 

Nala looks up at him slowly, gauges how serious he is, and lets a few walls come down when she says, “You might actually be my hero for the next hour.”

 

James allows the smallest of smiles before he follows Q up to his desk, where he’s opening his laptop and getting to work.

 

“Bond,” M says sternly.

 

“You’ll be okay,” James says, coming into the circle of desks and carefully undoing Q’s messenger bag from around him.

 

He types with one hand until James has got it off, and then he says, “Tea, please?”

 

“Not coffee?” James asks.

 

“Oh, that’s a much better idea.”

 

James sends his chair rolling toward him on his way out, and Q grabs for it, dropping down and tucking one of his knees in against his chest as he starts working.

 

After he’s deposited the coffee, Nala hands him a slip of paper, and he leaves Q branch in a middle of the night quiet with Q occasionally calling out commands to the skeleton crew, M standing angrily by the plants, and Eve perched on one of Q’s desks.

 

The streets are clear, and though someone would probably think it ill-advised to drive while half of London is on fire, the all-night diner Nala’s scribbled at the top is only a few miles away, and he’s there in under four minutes at top speed.

 

The staff blinks at him in utter shock when he opens the door, but he just settles onto a stool with a reassuring expression and passes over the paper, asking politely for it to be filled.  He thinks the sweatshirt makes him look a little less formidable, and if he turns his nose into the collar to see if it smells like Q, the staff pretends not to notice.

 

He hasn’t felt this safe with another person since, quite frankly, Vesper.  Even thinking of her name, let alone her face, still brings him pain, but it’s duller now, quieter.  When it flares white hot in the darkest hours of the night, he simply presses his face into Q and hides the swelling tide.  He’s not naïve enough to sell his flat, not that he’s ever paid for it, but he feels a sense of coming home with Q that all the others have barely touched upon.  He wonders how long this will last, or if his first mission involving a seduction will have Q running, and immediately hates himself for the thought.  Q knows him, and has shown his aptitude in similar emotional situations.

 

James sighs quietly, turning in his stool to look out at the red sky, but the woman sitting a few booths down, back to him, is what catches his attention.

 

He frowns, recognizing her immediately, as well as the way she leans into her right ear, listening.  James watches her, waits as she doesn’t turn the page in her book, and then she nods once, to herself, discreetly tugs an earbud out, and straightens.

 

“Sir,” one of the waiters says, setting a bag down in front of him.

 

Grace turns at the voice as James takes the receipt.  He can feel her staring at him, worrying if he saw or not, and so he leaves a hefty tip, signs, and takes the bag without looking at her.  He calls Eve as soon as he’s in the car.

 

“Where did you run off to?” she asks when she answers, “M’s in a right fit about you walking in with Q.”

 

“Why did he hire Grace?”

 

“What?” Eve says, confusion clear, “He thought she sounded like a good fit.”

 

“After nearly a decade in captivity, he thought that she sounded like a good fit for MI-6?”

 

“I agree it’s strange,” Eve says, “But it’s not for us to question his judgment.”

 

“Are you _certain_ he hired her?”

 

“James—”

 

“Eve, I need you to look.”

 

“Okay,” she says before, “Q, darling, I’ll be right back.  Yes, of course, Moneypenny, do be careful out there.  It’s as if I’m talking to a brick wall.”

 

“You are,” James says, “Quickly.”  He can hear Eve moving about the branch, the doors moving as she exits, and then the sound of the elevator.  “Wherever are you going?” he asks.

 

“I’m not going to bloody well snoop on Q’s girl while I’m in his department, that would just be rude.  Give us a moment.”  He pictures MI-6, hears when the doors open to the elevator, and sees her walking across the main lobby.  Up the stairs at the back, around the corner, and into her office, which sits just outside M’s, and then, “I’m here, let me pull up her file.”  James waits for it, even dares hope for a moment that it will be there, but then Eve says, “That’s—odd.”

 

“She doesn’t have a file, does she?”

 

“James.”

 

“Eve, get him out of there.”

 

James hears her desk rattle when her knee hits it as she jumps up, and then she’s running.  “How is this even possible?  How— _shit_.”  An alarm is going off in the background.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Fucking—Jesus, code war.  MI-6 is under attack,” Eve reports, her voice clipping at the edges of her words.

 

“He’ll seal off Q branch and evacuate through one of the tunnels,” James says.

 

Eve breaks, a fraction, “Or he’s a fucking idiot and he’ll stay behind to keep working on this fucking terrorist attack.”

 

“Eve.”

 

“It’s a diversion, I know.”

 

And then she hangs up.

 

——

 

“God, _fuck_ these people,” Nala grinds out, jerking up out of her chair and stalking over to the beverage station, snatching up Q’s mug on the way.

 

“Who sets a fire that big, though, honestly?” R agrees.

 

“Assholes,” Nala snarls, “The absolute _nerve_ of some people.  They think they can just—”

 

“Set fire to the rain?” Keira supplies.

 

“Stop that,” R and Nala says at the same time.

 

“Your pop culture references are not appreciated,” Nala says because she’s feeling just that side of hostile.

 

“That was rude,” Q says distractedly, “You make them all the time.”

 

“To relevant things,” Nala says, glaring at the coffee maker as it starts to gurgle.

 

“Doctors one through eight are no longer relevant,” R argues, “Maybe you can get away with eight since he was in that special, but other than that, sorry.”

 

“ _That’s_ rude,” Nala says, turning to Q.

 

When there’s no response, Q looks up.  “Oh, is it my turn?” he asks.

 

“Q,” Keira sighs.

 

“Social norms,” Nala finishes, “One through eight as relevant?”

 

“Sorry, no,” Q says, “Relevant is current.  They’re old.  They’re relevant to _us_ , yes, but in the general layman’s terms, no.  I just—thank you,” he says when Nala sets his mug back down.  He surprises them all by leaning back and taking off his glasses, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

 

“Are you okay?” Nala asks softly, tapping her fingers against his desk.

 

“I’m just—tired,” Q sighs, and he hates that he’s admitting it, but it’s true.  He hasn’t slept much this week, which is twofold, though half of it is his fault.  The other half makes him scowl, so he’s doing his best not to think of it, but 009 had lost an incredibly valuable asset, and now they’re back to square one for his current, and now long-term, mission.  On top of all of that, M has, of course, chosen now to be adamant about him interviewing four potential Q branch candidates, as well as dropped the bomb that he’s looking at different possibilities for filling 004 and 005’s spots, which Q promptly walked out of his office after he heard.

 

“Are you back?” Nala asks when he reaches for his glasses.

 

“What?” Q says, blinking at her.

 

“You drifted pretty far,” she says, frowning, “Are you sure you’re alright?  Is there anything I can get you?”

 

“Maybe some aspirin?” Q finally gives in, and Nala nods quickly, hurrying off.

 

MI-6 chooses that very spectacular moment to fall under attack.

 

Q knows, immediately, what those sirens means.  He had finally convinced M to let him change them to mimic the ones from _Silent Hill_ —all he’d had to do was play _the scene_ at one meeting, and he was given permission—and, since then, he’s fought vehemently to never let them come into use.

 

“Are there nurses outside?” R asks, starting to grin when he sees Q’s frozen fingers and horrified expression.

 

“Nala,” Q says.

 

“Why is the darkness approaching?” her voice comes through the earbud.

 

“Get back here.  _Now_ ,” he adds for good measure.

 

“On my way, sir.”

 

“We should build a guard,” R says even as he starts logging into their security system, “and stick a pyramid on his head.”

 

“Keira, as soon as Nala is through those doors, lock down Q branch, accessible only by me.  R, keep looking.”

 

“It’s nothing inside,” R says, frowning at his laptop, “I think it might actually be a physical attack.”

 

“What the hell is—” Q’s voice shatters into silence as everything goes dark, his entire branch plunged into an inky nothingness.

 

He hears Nala’s footsteps careen to a halt just down the hall, hears R’s sharp inhale, hears Keira whisper _oh god_ , and then remembers.  Moving quickly, Q lifts a hand, index finger finding the corner where lenses meets frames and presses against the screw there.  It’s rudimentary, but his field of vision clears as his night vision settings kick in.

 

“We’re safe,” he says quietly, “No one’s in the branch.  Keira, Arjuna, you have command of the branch.  Lead everyone through emergency evacuation protocols.  Leave everything.  _Go_ ,” he adds when no one moves.

 

“Sir?” R says.

 

“If you’ll have me,” Q says.

 

“Of course.”

 

R fumbles around blindly for his bag, finds it, and starts packing his things while Q does the same.  He stops by Nala’s desk to gather her things, and then he’s leading the way into the hall.  He knocks three times on the door to let Nala knows it’s them, and then he says, “We’re going into the lab,” before he reaches for her wrist.  He finds R’s hand behind him, and he guides them both down the hall to the lab where he releases them to pick his own lock.

 

Inside, all of his alarms are dismantled save for the vicious booby traps, and so he stops them just inside the doorway, takes out his phone, and yanks the plug on all of them.  He digs into the first layer of his systems, flips on the lights, and then nods to let R and Nala know it’s okay to proceed.  They move in while Q sets about sealing them into the lab through a reinforced steel door that won’t open until the alarm has been lifted, which only M can perform, and Eve, though she’s not aware, and Q hopes desperately that it won’t come to that.

 

When he turns around, R is on the floor, hands wrapped around a gunshot wound just below his right ribs, and Nala is being held at knifepoint, gagged.

 

“What—”

 

Something bludgeons against the back of his head, and darkness surrounds him.

 

——

 

“James?” Eve says as soon as she picks up, “Something’s happened.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“We don’t know.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“In Q branch.”

 

The line cuts, and Eve sighs, looking around.  They’ve since managed to get the power back up, though it took nearly an hour, and now she’s in his branch, taking in the empty desks, but, more importantly, his missing laptop, along with R’s and Nala’s.  She tries not to wonder what that means, but then Bill says, “Where is the rest of the branch?”

 

“Emergency evacuation,” Eve says, pointing to the cypress, whose position has shifted.

 

“Moneypenny!” James’s voice echoes down the hall precisely forty seconds later.

 

She jogs out to find him kneeling in front of Q’s lab door, glaring at the picked lock.  “We can’t get in,” Eve says, stopping at his side.

 

“He’s in there,” James says, standing, “Get M to lift the alarm.”

 

“James—”

 

“He could be hurt!” James yells before he throws a shoulder into the door, and even Bill sighs at him.

 

From the other side, a faint voice creeps through.  “007?”

 

James presses against the door quickly, ear flattened against the steel, and yells, “Q?  Is that you?”

 

“007?” the voice comes more clearly this time.

 

James’s expression grows tighter as he says, “Are you hurt?”

 

“Yes.”

 

James swears softly, steps back, and says, “We’re going to get you out of there, R.”

 

Once M hears that R is trapped inside the lab, injured, the alarm is almost immediately lifted.  They’ve secured all the entrances and exits, and everyone’s armed, so he deems it acceptable.  James is the first one inside, gaze sweeping the lab as he searches the corners, checking every dark spot.

 

“Clear,” he says finally, lowering his Walther and striding quickly across the lab to kneel by R.  “Let me see.”  R lifts his trembling hands, and James’s frown deepens.  “It’s going to be okay,” he says, and he’s almost certain he believes that.  It helps that R nods weakly at him before firmly pressing one hand against the concrete floor, pushing himself upright.  “Take it easy,” James says, steadying him when he sways once he’s sitting.

 

R lets out a hard breath, closing his eyes as the edges of his vision blacken.  “They have Nala and Q,” he says slowly.  When one of James’s hands curls tighter around his bicep, R opens his eyes and says, “I saw their faces.”

 

“Can you identify them?”

 

The unspoken _now_ sits between them.  “Yes,” R says even as Eve sighs her disapproval.

 

“Let’s get you to medical, then,” James says before helping him stand.

 

To no one’s surprise, he’s kicked out of medical almost as soon as he arrives.  The usual suspects draw no recognition from R, who is fading by the second, and then James gathers as much information as he can about them before one of the nurses is quite nearly shoving him out of the room.

 

He goes to M purely for someone to run the descriptions by because Eve is busy with damage control and is informed he’s being pulled from Q’s rescue.

 

“Bullshit,” he says.

 

“You’re far too close to this,” M says, “The last time you fought for someone, she was killed.”

 

“Fuck _you_ ,” he snarls, starts to turn, and stops, yanking his gun from shoulder holster and tossing it onto M’s desk between them.  “Shoot it,” he says.

 

“At you?” M offers even as he lifts the gun, takes aim at the wall, and pressures the trigger.  He frowns when nothing happens.

 

James holds out his hand for the Walther, speaking only when it’s in his hand again, and he curls around it, like an external extension of his heart, and shoots a smart hole in M’s wall.  “He protects us every day,” James says, “The entire double oh program should be out there looking for him.”

 

For once, James notices, his actions have finally spoken louder than his words.  After a long moment staring at the hole in his wall, M nods.  “Alec and Kellan,” he says without looking at James, who’s gone when he finally shifts his gaze.

 

“Bond?” Alec says when he picks up, “I’m on my way in.  What’s the story?”

 

“Our quartermaster and his third have been kidnapped.  Can you get in touch with Kellan?”

 

“You should call Adelaide.”

 

“Fair point,” he says before ending the call and dialing 008.

 

“007,” she says, “Eve just informed me.  Where are we going?”

 

James allows a small grin as he reaches the elevator.  “We’ll meet in Q branch first, 008.”

 

“Who else should I expect?”

 

“006 and 009.”

 

She hangs up, and James exhales only when he’s in the elevator, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes.  He thinks he knows the who and why, but the _what_ —what they’ll do to him, what they’ll use as methods, what he has the opportunity to become—is unrolling something dark in his stomach that tastes like dread.

 

——

 

Nala memorizes the route, calculates the length of time, and nearly breaks her nose smashing her head against one of her captors so that the bag on her head falls off and she catches a quick glimpse at their holding location.  She tries to spin and find Q, but she gets thrown to the ground for her trouble and kicked three times in the ribs before they yank her black bag back on.  They don’t, however, beat her into unconsciousness, and so she counts the steps, calculates how far down into the building they must be, and spits blood at one of their captors when he throws her into a chair and pulls off her bag.

 

“This one’s a feisty little bitch,” he says before he backhands her.  Her head turns with the slap, and she’s finally awarded with a view of Q as they haul him upright, tying his arms above his head, his legs dangling an inch from the ground.

 

“No more,” another voice says, with a heavy accent, and Nala’s captor steps back.  “She’s so pretty,” he continues, stepping into her line of sight, “Maybe we make use of that later.”

 

Her captor grins, showing perfect teeth that she wants to break.  He has wide shoulders and close-cropped blonde hair, and he reminds her of 007 in the smooth, unhurried way in which he walks away.  The one tying Q up is a woman, with long black hair held up in a ponytail and an eye that’s starting to swell shut from where R hit her.

 

She decides to keep quiet for now, and almost holds to that promise, but then the woman starts to leave, and she asks, “Where are his glasses?”  The woman takes them out of her pocket, drops them onto the ground, and crushes them.  Nala rolls her eyes and says, “That was dumb.  How is he supposed to hack into whatever you predictably want him to now?”

 

The woman hits her hard enough that Nala hears something crack.

 

——

 

Q branch is empty when he arrives but for Adelaide and Eve.  Alec and Kellan arrive a few minutes after James, and they spend the next fifteen frustrating minutes trying to locate the minions before Eve finally finds them, directs them back to MI-6, and says, “All outbound flights from England have been delayed.  It’s as far as I can reach for right now, so if they’re driving cross country, it will be some time before we know.”

 

“That’s—not strictly true,” Adelaide says, frowning, “Q will murder me for telling you, but he developed a new piece of tech, and I’m fairly certain I wasn’t the only testing it.”

 

“You’re one of three,” James says.

 

“Did he convince you to let him stab you, as well?  Excellent, glad to know I’m not the only one fond of him,” Adelaide says before turning back to Eve, “Moneypenny, there’s a smart beacon in his ankle.  Can you activate it?”

 

“Shoulder, actually,” James says, “He picked a different place for all three of them so as not to be repetitive.”

 

“Keira can when the branch returns,” Eve says, stepping out from behind Q’s desks, “She has first position, Arjuna at second.  There is no designated third, so please don’t piss them off.”

 

Alec grins at her retreating back while Kellan says, “Rumor has it, Bond.”

 

“Sorry, haven’t got the time,” James snaps, “In case the pair of you have forgotten, the man who regularly saves our lives is  _missing_.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Kellan says, “He’s—”

 

“Get out,” Keira’s voice drifts over to them.

 

“Keira!” Kellan croons.

 

“Get,” she demands as the rest of the branch hurries toward their desks, “You are nothing but a nuisance, and I will not have your annoying commentary while my boss is in captivity like a fucking  _animal_.  You, too, 006.”

 

Keira strides past them toward her desk, and, as Alec opens his mouth, Arjuna passes them and says, “I wouldn’t, mate.  We’ll let you know when we have something.”

 

Adelaide is already at Keira’s desk when Alec gives up, heading through the main aisle with Kellan behind him.  James watches them, gaze shifting to Keira and Adelaide when they’re gone, and then over to Arjuna, who is assigning tasks to different teams, and it’s not enough.

 

He grinds his teeth together before turning and stepping up into Q’s circle of desks, fingers touching the spot where his laptop usually sits before he opens the one to the left.  He types much slower than Q, though he has a program up and searching for Grace’s current location before Adelaide has finished with Keira.

 

——

 

When Q wakes, he can’t see.

 

It’s the first thing he notices because it’s what he’s expecting.  As soon as he registers that the world is just a dull blur, he starts taking stock of his body, and that’s when he realizes he’s having trouble breathing.  He shifts until he can twist his wrists around, get a good grip on the rope holding him up, and then he draws himself up, letting out a loud, heavy exhale as he tucks his knees in, taking in slow, steady breaths until his arms start to ache, and he lets himself back down.

 

Sometimes, he dreams of drowning.

 

He doesn’t classify drowning as a fear—or falling from dizzying heights, spiders, and an age without keys clicking under his fingers—but sometimes, when he dreams about drowning, when he comes up, surfaces with a struggle from the dredges of sleep, he can’t quite catch his breath.  He’s only had a few since James started sleeping in his bed, but he always wakes quietly, holding his shattering breath until he’s making tea and stumbling over to his sofa to curl up with a book, hold it against his chest, and just let it overwhelm him for a second.

 

He’s almost grateful that they’ve chosen to string him up.  This, this he can get out of.

 

When he was sixteen, Connor had broken one of his prototypes, and Q had lunged across the room at him, tackled him into the wall, soundless as he tried to hit every inch of him.  Connor had been slow to react, and even when he had finally got his feet under him, Q was so blind with fury that his fists were wild and unpredictable, and he got a few good ones in before Connor grabbed him by the upper arm, swung him around, and misjudged his strength.  It was not the last time someone dislocated his shoulder, and now, Q uses it to his advantage.

 

The next time he starts to feel short of breath, he pulls himself upright and swings first one leg back and then the other, ankles crossing as he clings to the thin pole they’ve erected in his honor.  The knot tying his wrists together is absolutely pitiful, and one hard jerk of his body aggravates them, so Q makes short work of getting his arm in an awful position so he can tug at the rope with his fingers until his wrists are chafed and starting to bleed, and then he’s on the floor, hands snapping out to break his fall.

 

He crashes as soon as he catches himself, knocking his knee against the cement, ribs into his elbow, and he just manages to get an arm under his head before that collapses against the ground.

 

“Christ, you’re loud,” a familiar voice floats over to him.

 

“Nala?” he whispers.

 

“They broke your glasses.”

 

“Motherfuckers.”

 

Q gets to his feet clumsily, shuffling his feet along without lifting them up so that he can make it to the darker blur that he assumes is Nala without falling.  He hits the chair she’s in regardless, kicking her foot on accident, and then he’s kneeling, patting along her leg until he reaches her waist and circles back, finding her hands.  He makes short work of the ties on her wrists, comes back around, and scoots closer, hands lifting to curl around her jaw.

 

She hisses at the contact, and Q frowns, lifting his hands.  “Is anything broken?” he asks.

 

“I don’t think so,” she says, rubbing at her wrists, “What do we do?”

 

“I need something sharp.”

 

“Okay,” Nala says, tapping his shoulder before she gets up.

 

Q hears it happen.  Nala searches for about thirty seconds, sighs, and then he hears a crunch.  “You could have looked a little longer,” he says when she hands him a piece of his lenses.

 

“They’re coming back,” she says, sitting, “Whatever you’re doing, hurry.”

 

“Right,” Q says before he inhales.  He wraps a hand around Nala’s shin to steady himself before he pushes up the sleeve of his left shoulder and cuts himself open, sawing with the jagged edge until blood is rushing down his arm.  He squeezes Nala’s shin when he pokes a finger inside, feeling around until he finds the smart beacon and activates it.

 

“Smart little fucker is right,” an accented voice says as a door slams open, and Q reels upright, shoving his sleeve down.

 

“Why is he bleeding?” another man’s voice asks.

 

“Son of a—”

 

Q sees the body approach, but cannot identify any features before he’s being grabbed by the throat and thrown against the ground.  He blacks out almost instantly upon contact, head bouncing off the ground, and he comes back ten seconds later to several voices screaming at each other.

 

When they realize he’s awake, a face comes close enough that he can see, clearly, for the first time, and he starts to spit when a hand clamps down over his mouth.  “You want to play this game?” a woman says, grinning at him, “You picked the wrong opponent.”

 

Later, he wonders if he vocalized his fear of drowning.

 

——

 

Keira estimates an eight-second margin of error.

 

When the quiet noise of her typing trips into silence, James turns away, watches lines of code stagger to a halt on the big monitors as she lets out this awful noise.  No one tries to comfort her.  Arjuna utters a single swear under his breath.  Adelaide goes to make tea.  Keira bites her lip hard enough that the taste of copper explodes in her mouth, but she doesn’t cry.

 

When he turns, she lifts her head and says, “007—”

 

His gait is clipped and bridling on an edge of fury that they’re able to recognize enough now that she doesn’t say anything further.

 

“Bond,” Adelaide says.

 

He doesn’t acknowledge her, either, though he knows that, truthfully, he should, but he just—he can’t imagine this situation right now, Q in the hands of some brutes, pinning him down while they dig out the smart beacon in his shoulder and crush it.

 

Eight seconds, and they lost him.

 

“Where are we headed?” Kellan asks when he exits Q branch.

 

James pulls the door to the lab open sharply, almost clipping Kellan in the shoulder.

 

“Shit,” Alec says, recognizing his face.

 

And then, he’s inside, tugging the door shut behind him even as he steps back against it, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle as he presses back tightly, tries to ground himself.  He lets himself have eight seconds of breaths that threaten to break and an unruly soul.

 

He thinks about Q’s grey eyes, always hinting toward green when he’s tiptoeing the line of aggravation and true anger.

 

He thinks about finding him asleep on the sofa, Keats curled up on his hip.

 

He thinks about that damn book that he keeps rereading, and decides he’ll finally give it a chance when all this is over.

 

He thinks about the weight of the Walther in Q’s hand and his delight at it not working for him.

 

He thinks about the way he’d stared at Jared, risking his life on the likelihood of his success.

 

He thinks about his ridiculous old record player that he fiddles with on Sunday mornings, something slow and warm, and the awful, upbeat music that thunders through his headphones while he’s working.

 

He thinks about the red mark on his neck, and asking him to be careful.

 

He thinks about his smile in the morning, tired and slow and without all of its wonderful sharp edges.

 

James steps away from the door, nicks the Martin’s keys from a locked drawer, and drives out into the night.

 

When he arrives at Q’s flat, he can’t quite get the door open fast enough for Joyce, who is positively howling on the other side.  They’ve made an absolute mess, he finds, and it takes him twenty minutes to sop up the water they’ve spilt, throw away the soaked food, refill both, find Keats, who has hidden under Q’s bed, and coax them both out and into a happier mood with several treats.

 

“Stop fretting,” he tells Keats, who has settled on top of one of his feet.

 

He forgets, suddenly, that he’s still wearing an earbud when there’s a soft clearing of the throat, and he nearly lodges Keats into the air.  “Hush now,” he says, running a hand over him when Keats’s purring hitches and he glares up at him.

 

“Yes, Keira?” he prompts.

 

“The trail appears to have gone dead, 007.  We are doing everything to find them, but 006 has asked for your direction.”

 

“Tell him he can report to M,” James says before he takes the earbud out, reaching out to place it on the counter.

 

A text comes through twelve seconds later,  _Goddamn it, James_.

 

——

 

For all the training MI-6 requires, becoming a torturer is not one of them.  He’s been held captive and withstood every ounce of evil the world has thrown at him, but turning the tables is not something James ever saw in his near future.

 

When he finds Grace, she’s sat behind a laptop, and she blinks stupidly at him when he shoulders open the door.

 

——

 

“Q,” Nala’s voice is desperate, and he tries to lift his head, tries to be strong for her, but his lungs are full of water, and he just wants to sleep.

 

“Q, please.  Wake up.”

 

He drags himself through blood and water, vision swimming as he gets a hand under his shoulder and pushes upright, looking around blearily.

 

“Q,” Nala says, the edges of her voice flooding with fear.  A hand threads through his mess of hair, pulls sharply, and turns him to face her.  He watches the blurry outlines of her body thrash, trying to escape.

 

——

 

He knows better than to damage both of her hands, in case she needs to communicate with her superiors or locate Q, and so he kneels in front of her, smiles sweetly, and asks, “Are you right or left handed?”

 

Grace frowns, not understanding, and says, “Right.”

 

He pulls the fingernails from her left hand and breaks them at each knuckle every ten minutes, letting the pain snake its way through her before he reaches for another one.

 

——

 

Q can feel it sloshing around inside of him, this murky underworld, and then he’s tossed away, hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs.  He rolls to his side, vomiting up water.

 

“Stop!” Nala screams, and he hears the dull crash of something.

 

He can’t see anything, and, somehow, it makes everything worse.

 

“That’s enough,” the woman’s voice says, “Put him in the cooler.”

 

Fear laces through him, primal and thundering, kick starting him into action as Q tries to scramble away, but a hand wraps around one of his ankles and starts dragging, and his nails turn bloody on the concrete floor.

 

——

 

Grace sobs intermittently, occasionally withdrawing into herself and murmuring softly.  James thinks she’s going through the numbers of pi, and it’s infuriating because it was one of Q’s defenses when they put him through this training.  He would repeat formulas, sequences, anything that kept him focused elsewhere, and it had helped him pass until MI-6 was confident that he was a good fit for his high-risk position.

 

James had once asked him if he ever thought he would be kidnapped, and he had scoffed, “Someday, I’m sure.”

 

He wonders if this is how he imagined it happening.

 

He breaks Grace’s jaw when she won’t stop.

 

——

 

Q starts counting prime numbers when his fingers go numb from the cold.  The first hour, he made himself get up every fifteen minutes and walk around, jumping occasionally even though his whole body ached.  The second hour, he remained in place, sometimes remembering to squat or twist to each side.  The third hour, he sat, pulling his knees close and digging his nose between his thighs.  The fourth hour, he starts losing time.

 

When he loses count of the minutes and his fingers go numb, he starts counting prime numbers, and he’s in the thousands when the door opens, and the woman comes forward, frowning.

 

“You poor thing,” she says, quickly pulling him upright and wrapping a blanket around him, “Let’s get you warmed up.”

 

Q has no choice but to follow, and when she hands him a new pair of glasses and a mug of tea, he understands.  “Where is Grace?” he asks.

 

——

 

James leaves her alive.

 

He’s not sure whether that’s a mercy or not, whether she’ll still be alive when they find her later, but she’s breathing when he retrieves an address from her and stalks from the room.  He tosses Q’s Ares sweatshirt on over his blood-soaked shirt, frowns at his shoes, and stops by Q’s flat to change, nick a few fun-looking devices, and tear back down the street.

 

When he arrives at MI-6, Alec, Kellan, Adelaide, and Eve are just leaving, taking two separate cars.  Alec spots him and climbs into the back, leaving the spot next to Eve open, who flashes him a grin.

 

He remembers what being in a car with Eve is like when she nearly gets stuck in traffic.

 

——

 

They bring him food, new clothes, and, at his demand, care for Nala.  An hour passes before they bring him a laptop.

 

A man with close-cropped blonde hair waves a hand vaguely at it and says, “Get us in.”

 

“To where, exactly?” Q asks, opening the laptop.

 

“Where you work, smartass,” he says, “British Intelligence.”

 

Q starts typing.

 

“How long did you have Grace?”

 

“Can’t you guess?”  The man sneers, and he looks so proud that Q types faster, tripping every alarm possible as he hacks his way in.  He fires off a message to R, and then revokes every shred of access that he’s ever had, initiating his emergency protocols so that his systems lock him out, and it will take days for him to get back in.

 

He shuts the laptop and says, “It will take longer than that before I’ll help you.”

 

——

 

R calls to let them know Q got near a computer and locked himself out of MI-6.

 

James remembers to ask him how he’s doing, but doesn’t hear the answer.

 

There’s a fire in the distance turning the sky black with smoke.

 

——

 

Several things happen without forethought.

 

The man snaps Q’s wrist, a quick, blinding twist of his rough fingers, and Q doesn’t bother swallowing a scream.

 

Nala finally gets free of her rope bindings and whips her chair across the room at him, one of the legs crashing against his sternum and sending him staggering backward before he tips over.

 

Q hoists the laptop into the air and throws it wildly toward the man, which sails over him but still startles him into dropping back down as Q runs over, one leg swinging around to careen against his head before he steals his gun.

 

Nala screams as Q turns, takes aim, and almost misses when a bullet rockets through the air and tears through his outstretched arm.

 

The tank keeping the freezer cold explodes.

 

——

 

Chaos reigns.

 

James throws down the window when he sees them, leans out, and swears because they’re still too far.  “But your leg into it,” he growls, and Eve makes the jeep leap forward somehow.

 

A half mile out, she throws the car in park, and he and Alec sprint away from her, closing the gap between them and a straggling party of scorched people.  James finds Q’s mess of long limbs dragging along the ground and lets his captor’s brains splatter the ground beneath them.

 

Alec makes short work of a big-shouldered man while James steps around Q to square off with a woman.  Kellan and Adelaide join them a few moments later, and then it’s over.  It happens seamlessly, which James has never been a fan of, for it usually means something worse is on the horizon.

 

Q is in the middle of a circle they subconsciously formed around him, and James checks that the others are focused on their surroundings before he drops to a knee and feels for a pulse.  “Alive,” he says quietly, “Anyone have eyes on Nala?”

 

“Negative,” Adelaide responds, “How is he?”

 

James takes Q by the shoulder, carefully turning him over, and is immediately met with his grey eyes, wide and terrified.  “Q,” he says slowly, grip shifting on his Walther.

 

“Are they dead?” Q whispers.

 

James’s head moves barely a fraction, but Q catches it, and he says, his words blurring together, “Nala’s still inside.”

 

James inhales, holds this moment inside of his chest until it hurts, and then exhales, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss to Q’s forehead.

 

“Alec,” James says curtly, and they’re gone.

 

“Cover my six,” Adelaide says before she drops down and asks, “Are you okay?”

 

“I’d be better standing,” Q says, and Adelaide smiles before carefully helping him to his feet.

 

“Injuries?” Kellan asks.

 

Q tries to keep his voice calm, but it still shakes a little as he reports, “Right wrist broken, possibly fractured, minor concussion, bruised ribs, and a gunshot in the left bicep.”

 

“What?” Kellan says, almost turning.

 

“It’s not old,” Q says, “I’ll be fine.  How is R?”

 

“Alive,” Adelaide says, “And causing absolute mayhem from his hospital bed.”

 

“Good.  Our ride?  Ah, Miss Moneypenny.”

 

Eve finally reaches them, and Adelaide helps Q over to the car while Kellan keeps watch.  He’s barely been settled in the backseat when another explosive plume of dark smoke rockets into the sky, and Q lets out a soft, anxious noise, leaning forward.  “Q,” Eve says.

 

“Nala is in there, Eve,” he says, “She was hit by something when I shot the cooling tank.  I don’t even know— _fuck_.”

 

“Good grief, honestly?” Adelaide’s voice floats in a half second before the sound of a blades cutting through air does.

 

Adelaide jumps in beside Q as Kellan climbs into the passenger seat, and Eve speeds off toward the burning building.  “008, in the back!” Eve calls over the noise.

 

Adelaide twists around until she can reach behind the seat, and she makes a noise of delight before she clambers over the seat and into the back of the car, dropping back so that she can kick out the rear window.  “Honestly,” Eve mutters, shaking her head, “That was avoidable.”

 

Q pulls his legs up, knees tucking in against his chest as he cradles his broken wrist in against him and closes his eyes, trying to block it all out.  He was never built for this moment, never hardwired to survive amidst gunfire and explosions, let alone a bazooka taking out a helicopter.

 

Eve jars them to a shuddering halt a few feet away when James runs out, Nala in his arms and Alec behind him, and Kellan lets out a wild shout when Adelaide’s back hits the seat, the resounding thunder of noise deafening them all.

 

James keeps his head down and keeps moving as Alec covers him.  Adelaide throws open the back door of the jeep, taking Nala from James before he climbs in, and then Alec is dropping into the seat next to Q, and Eve is driving before anyone’s ready.

 

“Shit,” James swears as he grabs onto the roof, other hand holding onto Adelaide’s arm as she reaches out and yanks the door back toward them.

 

“Jesus  _Christ_ , that’s beautiful,” Kellan says, leaning out his window, “Even so, I’d drive faster.  That shit’s coming right for us.”

 

Q presses his face against his thighs to hide his fear, to hide the overwhelming relief of being free, to hide everything he can’t stop from spilling over, and then James reaches a hand forward and brushes a knuckle against the nape of his neck, fingers fanning out to rest there lightly, and it breaks Q a little further.

 

Somehow, they make it out alive.

 

——

 

Despite M’s request for a debriefing, medical’s combined stares of frustration, and the fact that he’s covered in ash and blood, James follows Q from jeep to surgery to a stark white room, the blinds drawn shut and devoid of— _anything_.

 

Eve stops by first to check on Q’s status, and then again to deposit clothes on the chair next to James and a succulent by Q’s bedside.  “Shower and change,” she says, “He’ll probably be asleep for the rest of the day.  James,” she sighs when he doesn’t move.

 

“How did this happen?” he asks, finally looking to her, “He’s been attacked twice now, from inside his own branch.”

 

Eve strides over to him, taking him by the arm and hauling him out of his seat.  “And I’m sure that brain of his is already formulating defenses,” she says, grabbing his clothes and leading him away, “But you are doing no good sitting here smelling like you do.  Get cleaned up, and then come back.  He’ll still be here.  Besides,” she adds when the door opens, revealing R, “I brought back up.”

 

“Don’t tell them I’m out of bed again,” R says, hobbling past James and Eve with his rolling IV.

 

“He’s in good hands,” Eve says, pushing James out of the room, “Go.  Maybe swing by to see M on your way, too.”

 

He’s halfway to the staff showers when he checks his watch and has a brilliant idea.  He detours back up to the main level, takes the tunnel out onto the street where the Aston Martin is still parked, and drives home, going up to Q’s flat without a second thought.

 

 _Home_ , he realizes, has become stepping over projects, picking a stray cat hair from his shirtsleeve, and Q’s slow mouth in the mornings.  He doesn’t know how to pick at this, how to digest that someone has finally managed to chisel through his steel skin and make a nest out of his heart again.

 

James frowns when he steps inside, Keats jumping from one of their perches and running over, meowing loudly.  Joyce seems to sense something is wrong, as well, when she pokes her head out from the bedroom and blinks at him.

 

“I don’t know,” he admits, finally closing the door.

 

Keats circles him until he goes into the bathroom, and James lets things blur together until they’ve reached the after, after it all.

 

After—after James bites his knuckles in an attempt to swallow this rising darkness, a gaping hole that’s yawning wide inside of him, the water streaming with drops of blood beneath him, and all he can think about is Q’s voice when he’d rattled off what had happened to medical so they could treat him properly—asphyxiation, water boarding, freezer—and James had bitten through his palms with blunt nails.

 

After—after Q wakes in a blinding terror, coming up through a fog he’s due to sleep through, and searching frantically for James only to find him missing, R sitting where he should be and yelling for help, and it’s not until he sees the approaching morphine that he demands to remain conscious.

 

After—after James discovers Keats is an absolute lunatic in the car, howling violently from the backseat while Joyce sits shotgun like a champion, looking around curiously, and they’re still in tow, trotting along obediently, when Eve stops him and almost lets her façade break when she says, “He hasn’t been asking for you, but—he needs you.”

 

After—after Q just falls apart, trying and failing to talk as he hiccups through the worst noise James has ever heard, including Vesper’s last words to him, and he heals it by dropping two cats on his lap, setting a cactus next to the succulent, and a kiss against his temple as R discreetly gets up and shuffles away.

 

After—after three days in medical, Keats and Joyce charming  _everyone_ , several new plants, and all of MI-6 whispering about them, Q finally convinces James to take him home, and James is watching him struggle into a shirt after he’d snapped at him about helping when he realizes that  _home_  is something Q is discovering, as well, where he waits for foreign teas, rereads that damn book over and over, and kisses with a slow mouth to trap the warmth in those blue eyes he’d never noticed before.   _Home_ , he thinks, is another person.

 

 _Home_ , he decides, is lying next to Q on Sunday morning, naked beneath the sheets, and with his head pillowed on Q’s thigh, his broken wrist resting against James’s shoulder while he sips at his tea and turns his page with the other.

 

“What’s it about?” he asks.

 

“The nightmare?” Q clarifies.

 

James knows.  He’s heard the sounds that he tries to stifle when he wakes, and he wraps an arm around Q’s leg, holding it close.  “The book,” he says.

 

Q lets out a long, suffering sigh, and James presses his smile against his thigh.  “It’s complicated,” Q says, though James hears him fold down the corner of his page, “And my brothers will be here soon.”

 

“My quartermaster is on leave,” James lets the words linger up his thigh before he noses up the hem of his shirt and kisses his stomach.

 

“Does that mean you get to slack off?” Q asks, closing the book and setting it aside.

 

“It means,” James says, shifting until he can wrap a leg around Q’s and settle again in the space between his arm and bruised ribs, just his nose brushing his side as he closes his eyes.

 

“You’ve forgotten the second half of your sentence,” Q muses, settling his broken wrist against the bed and using his good hand to card his fingers slowly through James’s short blonde hair.

 

James just hums, letting himself relax, letting the weariness in his bones melt into the bed, keeping an eye on the edge of sleep trying to creep toward him, and then Q starts talking, telling him about a timeless war between the Horologists and Anchorites, and it lulls him into something deep and dark.

 

Q is making tea when Desmond tries to break down his door.  “You’ll give the neighbors a fright with that racket,” Q says when he opens it.

 

“A fucking  _week_ , and this is the first we’ve seen of you,” Desmond says, immediately pulling Q against him, who extends his tea arm out, smiling in thanks when Shae takes it from him.  “You could have  _died_ , Rowan,” Desmond says, pulling back to hold him at arm’s length and stare at him.

 

“Are you making sure I’m not?” Q asks, swallowing a smile.

 

“You absolute  _ass_ ,” Desmond sighs, pulling him back in for another hug, which Q returns, burrowing a little.

 

When Desmond releases him, he suffers a hug from both Connor and Shae before he takes his tea back and says, “I haven’t started cooking yet, but help yourselves.”

 

“Is James in?” Connor asks as he finds a skillet.  When Q doesn’t answer, but instead ambles off toward his bedroom, he continues, “Tell him he’s making eggs, not omelets.”

 

Q leaves the door ajar as he goes in, smiling when he finds James just rousing, still tangled in the sheets.  “Having a bit of a lie in, are we?” Q teases, heading for the closet.

 

“You’re the one who up and got kidnapped,” James accuses, kicking the sheets off before he goes to join him.

 

“So it’s my fault you’re tired?” Q says, frowning at his clothes.

 

He starts to reach forward when James’s arms loop around him, coming to rest one against his hip, the other slipping under his shirt to settle against his stomach, just a light pressure.  His mouth starts at the nape of his neck, slowly trailing around until he grazes his teeth along Q’s ear and says, “I was thinking of selling my flat.”  Q lets himself absorb that, lets the weight of James’s hands ground him as he thinks about what that means.  “If you’ll have me,” James adds, pulling back the collar of his shirt to kiss his shoulder.

 

“Do you trust me?” Q asks.  He thinks he knows, but there’s this part of him that knows trust does not come easily.

 

“Unfortunately,” James presses the word into his skin.

 

Q smirks and turns, kissing him with more heat than is strictly necessary, considering his brothers are on the other side of his open bedroom door.  “There are ground rules,” Q says when he turns back to his closet, grabbing a pair of jeans.

 

“If those are fitted, I will laugh at you,” James says, rummaging around until he can find something to wear, as well.

 

“Good, that was rule number one.  You’re absolutely not allowed to turn into a sap.  I will put you on the street.”

 

“Translation: continue to make your life miserable?” James says, stepping into a pair of trousers, sans briefs, which Q rolls his eyes at.

 

“Precisely,” he says, “If you’re suddenly doting about, not breaking or losing any of your equipment, I won’t have it.”

 

“And the car?”

 

“You can bloody well have the car,” Q mutters, “You’ve already stolen it a half dozen times.”

 

“MI-6?”

 

Q struggles into a dark green shirt that James longingly wants to rip off of him.  His hair comes out a right mess, and it makes him smile as he reaches for a blue shirt, soft and unfamiliar.  “It’s yours,” Q says without looking at him, “And absolutely no workplace fraternization.”

 

“I didn’t buy this,” he says, though he puts it on.  It’s a dark, royal blue, and Q’s quirked smile tells him that it was purchased to wear with grey pants.  “The cats, in case of a divorce?” James asks.

 

Q laughs outright at him as he opens his door.  “You wouldn’t last a week alone with them,” he says before he disappears into the kitchen.  Keats follows him to prove his point.

 

“Okay, so,” Connor says forty minutes later, when there’s an array of food on the island, and they’re all gathered together around it, “you were kidnapped.”

 

“Wow, without any preamble at all,” Desmond says, reaching over to smack him upside the head.

 

“Well, it’s an elephant, and we’re in a room,” Connor says as he points vaguely toward Q’s end of the table.

 

“Use your words, you’re an adult,” Q says, taking the bowl of hash browns.

 

“Yes, those,” Connor says, and then whines loudly when Q starts serving himself before passing it over to James.

 

“Wait your turn,” Q says, taking the bacon from Shae, “Yes, I was kidnapped.  It sucked, I got out of it.  Can we move on?”

 

“Strictly speaking, you only got halfway out of it,” James says because he wants to see Q’s murderous expression.  It’s wonderful.

 

“I blew up a fucking building,” Q says, “Sorry I stole your thunder.”

 

“Wait,” Shae says, not letting go of the sausages, “You blew up a building?  That was not in the  _I’m okay_ text.”

 

“Technically,” Q says, taking the plate from him, “A cooler blew up the building.  I just shot it.”

 

“It was far more adventurous than that,” James says.

 

Q groans at their eager faces.  “Why do you do this to me?” he asks, handing over the plate.

 

“It’s therapeutic, talking things out,” James says.  Q gives him his best deadpan expression.  James has absolutely no control over his smile at that.  “That’s what I’ve been told,” he adds.

 

“For future reference, I locked myself out of Q branch, which is going to take a fucking hack marathon worthy of  _at least_  four days to undo, threw a laptop at the man who broke my wrist, stole his gun, and shut the cooler that was freezing the fucking cell they locked me in after— _shit_.”

 

James lifts one hand when Shae starts to speak, the first one to see the way Q’s knuckles go white where his good hand is gripping the edge of the table.  “Q,” he says softly, reaching for him, stopping when Q flinches, not looking up at him but instead staring resolutely at the patterns in the granite, counting the crisscrossing lines.

 

“Just—” he tries to speak, but his breath shatters out when he does, and James gets up, going over to the stove to put on the kettle.  “Fuck, I’m sorry,” Q says, releasing the edge of the island to sink back into his seat, lifting his hand to rub his knuckles against his temple, “It’s right there.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Desmond offers.

 

It takes a long, hard second, but Q finally says, “They water boarded me before putting me in a cooler to freeze.”

 

“Jesus,” Shae exhales.

 

“What the fuck,” Connor says, already pushing out of his seat even as Q shakes his head.

 

“Did you kill them?” Desmond asks, looking to James, who doesn’t respond but to meet his gaze, and Desmond nods once.

 

“No,” Q tries, but Connor still wraps around him, hiding his fear in Q’s shoulder as he holds onto him.

 

He turns his head only when Q finally returns the embrace, cheek resting against the back of his shoulder as he looks at James and says, “Thank you.”

 

“They only did it because your brother’s an asshole,” James says, and Q’s shoulders start jumping.  Connor pulls back, fearing the worst and instead finds him laughing.

 

“It’s so true,” he practically giggles, “I got out of their first thing, hands strung up over my head, and they were so pissed when they found out.”

 

“You messed with that bum shoulder of yours, didn’t you,” Connor says, knocking his fist against it, “See, it’s a good thing we used to beat on you after all.”

 

“I could still take you in a fight,” Q threatens, pointing his fork at him, “Probably better now than before.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” Shae says, handing over the vegetables.

 

When James returns with a mug of tea, Q thanks him with his fingers, lingering against his own before he takes the cup from him.

 

“Okay, but,” Connor says, and he looks around at them before he continues, “did anyone see the match last night?”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” James says, “You’d think we were playing at ballet.”

 

“A right fucking show, wasn’t it!” Shae yells, nearly dropping the eggs.

 

“Oi, careful with those!” Desmond shouts, watching the plate wobble, “Those are sacred.”

 

“Seriously, what do you put in them?” Connor asks, leaning across the table like he actually thinks James is going to tell them.

 

“The blood of my enemies,” James says instead, and Connor laughs loudly, smacking Shae as he does so, who just shakes his head, and then Q steals half the eggs, and they’re all yelling at him as he passes the plate on.

 

——

 

Three days later, Q hacks into MI-6 and reinstates his access, which takes the predicted four days, though he thinks he could have managed it in less if his wrist wasn’t broken.  A week after that, he finally convinces M to let him off leave.  When he returns to Q branch, though, he almost considers it a bad idea, almost turns right around and goes to cry somewhere else.

 

James is there behind him, though, a steady hand on his lower back as he steps inside, and everyone stands, applauding and  _hollering_.  There are no less than eight new plants on his desk, R is holding his scrabble mug expectantly, and Nala is sitting on his desk, smiling at him.

 

“Damn it,” Q says, trying to take a steadying breath.

 

“You’re our fucking hero, Q,” Arjuna says adamantly.

 

“Welcome back, please don’t ever do that again,” Keira says when he allows her to hug him.

 

When he reaches Nala, he steps into her space, reaching out a hand to circle around her wrist, holding there.  “Are you okay?” he asks softly, enough so that the others won’t hear.

 

She offers him a brave smile.  “I’ve been better,” she says, “You?”

 

“Insomnia is a dear friend,” Q says, and she nods quickly.  When he tugs at her, she goes, sliding off the desk to embrace him, clinging to him tightly as Q presses a solid hand against her back, breathing loud enough for her to hear that it’s okay.

 

“Alright,” he says when he steps back, wiping at his face even though it’s dry, “Get to work.  We’ve got a lot to do.”

 

James hangs back when he walks the rest of the way to his station, where R is organizing, moving plants off to one desk.  Q lifts his mug and sips—herbal.  “They should probably go under the light,” he says when he steps into the circle, “And these desks.”  He knocks his knuckles against one of them.

 

“I was thinking a semi-circle might suit you better, leave the monitors to act as your backdrop.”

 

“Do I get a spinning chair?” Q asks, waiting for him to look up.

 

“Listen, I let you bring those damn cats into medical, not in this office.”  He finally lifts his gaze, smiling unsurely at Q.

 

“Is there a such thing as a semi-circle desk?”

 

“I found one,” R says, shrugging one shoulder, “on Amazon.”

 

“How are you?”

 

“I fucking loathe that question,” R says with every bit of bite it deserves, and Q breaks, smiling widely as he strides over and pulls R against him.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers, “Thank you.”

 

“Please don’t try to die again,” R exhales, “It really doesn’t suit you well.”

 

Q laughs quietly before stepping back.  “I’ll do my level best.”

 

R looks like he wants to stay on that vein, but he switches tracks at the last second and asks, “Shall I move the plants over?”

 

“I can do it,” Q says.

 

“Or you can stop avoiding your computer,” R says, nudging him toward his laptop, “It’s not going to bite.”

 

“It might,” Q grumbles, though he lets himself be moved toward it.  R starts collecting the plants, beginning the transfer.  When James steps up, Q barely glances at him as he asks, “Yes, 007?”

 

James grins.  “M said he sent down a mission.”

 

“As you can see,” Q says, opening his laptop and logging in, “I’ve only just gotten back.”

 

“Laziness is unattractive, darling,” James says.

 

Q huffs a laugh at him.  “I’ve heard you’re quite lazy when you’re playing dead.”

 

“Hardly,” James says, “I always manage to find time to drink and dance.”

 

“And fuck,” Q corrects, “That was the word you were looking for, I would hazard.”

 

James leans in close, and it does nothing to prepare Q for his words, though he knows, with absolute clarity, what they’ll be, “I’d like to fuck you when I get back.”

 

Q hums softly, and James knows he’s won when he looks up and says, “See that you behave, then.”

 

James taps his fingers against Q’s desk, says, “I’ll come back for that file, then, quartermaster,” and leaves him to it.

 

——

 

There are still afters to be had.

 

Q doesn’t sleep the first two nights James isn’t there, but Nala keeps encouraging him to go home, and he needs to be strong for her, so he does.  He walks around aimlessly, occasionally dropping onto his sofa to read or taking a mug of tea out onto the balcony.  He makes his lunches in advance at four in the morning, and everyone’s is surprised when he neglects takeout because he  _brought lunch_.  When James finally arrives in Japan, he almost breathes a sigh of relief.  They’re back.

 

He helps him find the target he’s after, remarks about the komodo dragons in the area, and then sighs when he switches his earbud off.  Nala comes in at the switch of crews, looking at him expectantly, but he can’t, he can’t do this, he can’t keep pretending that he’s okay, he  _can’t_ —and so he shifts fluidly to find 006 creeping through the dark.

 

“006?” he says cautiously, “Have you murdered anyone today?”

 

“Q,” Alec says fondly, “So good to hear from you.  Murdered seems like a very high strung word.  I’m not sure I appreciate it fully.”

 

“Yes, then,” Q says, “How can I assist?”

 

“ _Well_ ,” Alec says, and then Q is trapped for several hours, getting him out of a rather complex  _maze_  he’s literally seemed to have got himself stuck in.  By the time they’re finished, it’s the wee hours of the morning, and Q is feeling that familiar buzz of lack of sleep that he occasionally enjoys.

 

“Do try not to fall into any booby traps, 006,” Q says as he starts searching for 002.

 

“Why, Q,” Alec scoffs, “It sounds as though you’re mocking me.  It’s not as though we’re in the business of espionage or anything.”

 

“No one says espionage anymore, 006,” Q says, though he’s smiling.

 

“I heard a rumor—”

 

“Q signing off.”

 

“Oh, fine.  006 signing off.”

 

“Q?” Nala says as she stops at his desk to take his mug, “Are you leaving soon?”

 

“Unlikely,” he says, finally finding 002 and patching in, “002, what  _are_  you doing?”

 

Nala sighs, but goes off to fill his mug as 002 says, “Have you been outside recently, Q?  The moon is absolutely monstrous tonight.”

 

“I’ll have to give it a gander at some point.  Your target?”

 

“Acquired,” 002 says evenly, “He’s downstairs at the moment, making  _hot chocolate_ , whatever that is.  I must say, I am eternally grateful that your youth has not led you to be quite so—”

 

“Distressing?” Q supplies, “Some of the  _youths_ are a little disconcerting with their backward caps and high energy levels.”

 

“Yes!” 002 exclaims, and Q grins, looking up when Nala stops at his desk, setting the scrabble mug down.

 

“Enjoy your moonlit serenade, 002,” Q says before he signs off and says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Can you not sleep?” Nala asks.

 

“No,” Q admits, “And I just—this is easier.  This helps.”

 

“I know,” Nala says, “I think I need a companion.”

 

“A human one?” Q asks, and it makes Nala smile.

 

“I was thinking a reptilian one,” she says, “Maybe a snake.”

 

Q’s eyes go wide as he says, “You  _have_ to let me visit.  Or bring it in.  Snakes are extraordinary.”

 

“I would have never pegged you for a snake person,” Nala admits, her smile widening, “Any other surprises?”

 

“Spiders are awful,” Q says, “And—” he falters, watching M come down the hall in one of his cameras.  Nala turns as he lifts his gaze past her, and they watch M come into sight with two women trailing him.  One of them is of average height with short brown hair and matching eyes, a quick clip to her walk, and no smile as she follows him, and it lets Q know immediately what they are.  The other, he decides, won’t last long, with her overeager eyes and fidgeting hands.

 

“Q,” Arjuna says, “Incoming call.”

 

He glances at his laptop—007, which he tries desperately not to react to, but one corner of his mouth curls up, and Nala sighs at him—and says, “Thank you, Arjuna.  How’s your report coming?”

 

“I’ll have it by the end of the night.  Almost done with the repairs, sir,” he says, not looking up.

 

“Can you check on everyone’s side projects?” Q asks, turning to Nala, “Find out if anyone’s making progress rather than working on the system rebuild.”  Nala nods and turns, so Q taps into James’s line and says, “Are you dead yet?”

 

“Close enough,” James mutters, “Can you see me?”

 

“Hang tight, love,” Q says, and it comes out before he’s ready to release it.  “Shut up,” he adds when he hears James start to respond.

 

He’s localizing on James’s location when the doors to Q branch opens, and he forces himself not to look up, not to let his curiosity bleed through.  “M is touring new agents,” he says quietly.

 

“Shark bait?” James asks, though there’s a bit of a strain to his voice.

 

“One of them, possibly,” he says, “Got you, moving in on CCTV now.”

 

“Do try to hurry this along, Q.”

 

“I’m—well, that’s just—unfortunate, isn’t it?”

 

“Q,” M says.

 

He lifts a finger, still typing.  “Is that—thirty stories up?”

 

“Can you really count that from a fucking CCTV feed?” James asks, sounding put off now.

 

Q smirks, looking around until he finds the building’s name, and then he starts hacking into their security system until he can find the locks on the windows, and then he says, “Three feet over, it should be open.”

 

He watches James carefully edge his way along the outside of the building until he can reach the now unlocked window and pull it open.  “My hero,” he says.

 

“Will you need further assistance, 007?” he asks, noticing M’s growing impatience.

 

“I’d rather keep you on the line and listen to you be rude to M’s new recruits, if that’s—”

 

“Do try  _not_  to blow it up while you’re still inside, then,” he says, not cutting the line as he finally turns to M, “Yes, sir?”

 

“Q,” he says evenly, “I’d like to introduce you to 004 and 005.”

 

“We’re not doing secret meetings anymore?” Q asks, noticing a blip on one of his laptops, “Shame, I enjoyed those.”  He steps over to the left, checking in on 002, who has sent him nothing more than a picture of the moon.   _I would be lost without your kindness, 002,_ he writes back.

 

“You will report to your quartermaster before every mission, as he will have all necessary files and any equipment that might assist in your success.  He—”

 

“I’m sorry,” 004 says, with her quick gait and short hair, “This is our quartermaster?”

 

Q turns to 005.  “What is your preference?”

 

“Long,” she says, and he smiles, opening one of the several drawers in his desk and taking out a gun.

 

“Test the weight,” he says, handing it over before he pulls up a program and starts typing.

 

She shifts it in her hand, adjusting her grip, and Q decides he likes her better as the other one is still scowling at him.  “Sir,” 004 prompts.

 

“That will be all,” M says carefully, “Please remain until Q’s finished with you.”

 

“It’s excellent,” 005 says, extending her arm.

 

Q takes the gun back from her, turns so that he’s got it secure in his left, almost laughs out loud when Nala shouts, “For House Martell!”, and then frowns when his aim is off.  He sets it back on the table, finishes loading, and then shoots again, though none of his branch moves, ready now for when the gun doesn’t react to him.

 

“It should be coded to your palm print now,” Q says, handing the gun back to 005, “You can test it out on the firing range, but it should—ah, yes, light up green.  I’ll expect it back in one piece after all missions.  Thank you, 005, you’re released.”  As she leaves, he glances at his screens and sighs.  “007,” he says, “Why?”

 

“You were busy, I needed it open.”

 

“So you chose to snap the hinges clean off rather than pick the lock?” he asks, “Where are you going?”

 

“For once, we’re playing out in the open.”

 

“If you’re thrown off the roof, I’ll still expect tea in the mail.”

 

“Already sent,” James says.

 

“Your preference, 004?” Q says as he turns toward her.

 

“How old are you?” she demands.

 

“Oh, I’m going to annihilate her,” James says into his ear.

 

“You implied just as much,” Q says, “Spots, remember?”

 

“Age is no guarantee of efficiency,” James says.

 

Q swallows a smile as he says, “And youth is not guarantee of innovation.  004, my apologies, it appears one of your colleagues is having a bit of trouble not eavesdropping.  It’s quite amusing, really, that this conversation would occur yet again in his proximity.  I hope that my—spots, I think it’s been referred to as, do not determine the path of our working relationship.”

 

“What did you do, steal funds from the government, so they scooped you up and trained you from infancy so you wouldn’t cause later damage?” she challenges.

 

“Short, then,” Q says, opening another drawer.

 

“Are you going to shoot the wall dramatically with this one, as well?”

 

Q switches from left to right, knows he’ll regret it even as Nala calls out, “Water tribe!”, and misses his mark again.

 

He shakes out his right hand, grimacing as pain lances up his arm.  “Test the weight,” he says, handing it over to her.  She’s still scowling, but she takes the gun, takes aim, and hits the middle of the target.  “It works,” she says, holstering it, “Are you quite finished,  _Q_?”

 

He continues typing until the palm print activates, and then he says, “Yes, it’s coded to you.  Do remember that I provide all intel and assistance on assignments.  You’re released.”

 

“Is that a threat?” she says, the ghost of a smirk flashing across her face.

 

“The very worst,” he promises before returning to James, “Are you on the roof yet?”

 

“Bit busy, Q,” he says, and then he registers the sounds of fighting.

 

“Well, hurry it along, then.  You’ve got a dinner reservation in two hours with the target’s wife.”

 

James snaps something witty at him, but he’s too busy watching 004 stalk from the branch to hear him.  “Stop it,” he says when he hears Nala typing, “Let her be.”

 

“That was—”

 

“Posturing,” he says, “She’ll calm down.”

 

Nala is silent for a moment before she says, “Just say the word, and I’ll unleash a virus that she’ll never get away from.”

 

“We do not sabotage our double ohs, Nala,” he sighs.

 

“Okay, M.”

 

Q pointedly does not grin in response.

 

——

 

He continues to not sleep.  He gets James home safely, helps 002 tidy up, and sighs loudly when M sends a mission down for 004.  He naps occasionally, curling up on the futon late at night, when only the skeleton crew is around, working quietly through the dark, and only when Nala is on duty.  He usually wakes with a start an hour or two later, shakes off the last dredges of sleep, and goes back to work.

 

The day James is due back in London, however, he wakes because there’s a hand in his hair, fingers curling gently around the curve of his skull, and a familiar voice lulling him up toward wakefulness.  The voice begins to transform, taking the shape of words, and he hears, “I thought I put that one in the unqualified pile.”

 

“Did you even look at the back?” R asks, turning the paper over.

 

“If I have to look at the back of someone’s resume, they’re clearly not qualified.  Why are they even printed out?  I never got around to asking you that.”

 

“Some of us—” the way he says it lets Q knows it’s directed toward him, “—still like paper copies because we’re apparently dinosaurs.”

 

“Paper cuts are just  _evil_ ,” Q mumbles.

 

“There are six final contestants,” R says, “Are we agreed?”

 

“If you insist,” James says before he lowers his voice, “Darling, it’s getting late, and you’re wearing yesterday’s jumper.”

 

“It’s hideous, I know,” Q says around a yawn before he pushes upright, looking at him blearily.  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

 

“I got back in the middle of the night, and, for no reason I can understand, went home instead of here, and yet, you find a  _futon_  more comfortable than a bed.  Not that your bed is anything to get excited about, but alas.  Here we are.”

 

“My bed is wonderful,” Q says, “And if you’ve got a problem, then you can bloody well get it replaced.”

 

“Done,” James says, “Why are you sleeping here?”

 

“I wasn’t,” Q says, “It was just a—nap,” he finishes lamely as he looks at his watch.

 

“A five-hour nap is quite the feat.  Fancy breakfast?”

 

“Why are there resumes involved?” he asks as he gets up.

 

“You’ve got six interviews today,” R says, “They start in two hours.”

 

“Heathen,” Q accuses.

 

“We need to work on your insults,” James says as he passes him, heading for the exit.  Q stops by R’s desk to grab names, and then he’s off, digging out his phone as he heads down the hall, meeting James at the elevator.

 

“An  _intern_ ,” he says loudly as he reads an email from M, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, an intern as a PA, are you serious?”

 

“An assistant may serve you well,” James says, stepping into the elevator and taking Q by the elbow to make him follow.

 

“That’s the most obnoxious lie you’ve ever told,” Q mutters, typing out a response to M, “Six interviews, it’s as though they’re trying to—to—fill the department or something.”

 

“We couldn’t have that,” James quips, stepping out of the elevator again and walking quickly through the main floor, “That would require you to go home at least half of the time.”

 

“Unrealistic,” Q says, and then stops when he notices the route James is taking.  “Where are we going?” he asks.

 

“I’ve got a—”

 

“You have not,” Q says, turning away, “Leave her alone.”  James doesn’t budge.  “James, honestly,” he says, “I’d like a shower before I have to suffer through six potential employees.”  He lifts an eyebrow, so Q sighs and says, “Yes, you may indulge—two of the animalistic urges you’re experiencing at the moment.”

 

“Animalistic?” James echoes, though he turns to follow Q now, letting him lead them toward the tunnel, “I’m not the one who—”

 

“Finish that sentence,” Q threatens, “and I’ll give you a faulty—something.”

 

“Not even a hint?” James asks, holding the door open for him.

 

“It might be your pen,” Q says, shrugging.

 

“Q,” James says, his voice dropping through a register as they wait for the next door to be cleared and opened into the tunnel, “That’s mean.”

 

“It’ll be your Christmas gift, then.”

 

“An exploding pen?”

 

“Will you stop asking if I do?”

 

“Never,” James says, “I might lose it.”

 

“You’re impossible,” Q says, stepping into the tunnel.

 

James just grins and follows him.

 

——

 

Q’s first interview is at promptly 10AM.  James made him eat, shower, and change—though he joined him for the shower, and they were nearly late because of that—before they parted ways, James upstairs to M and Q downstairs to grumble about  _humans_.

 

R makes him the most delightful cup of coffee he thinks he’s ever had, and he’s a little nicer just for that.  “Do not,” Nala growls when she sees him reach for an earbud.

 

“What if—”

 

“Q,” she says sternly, “They deserve your undivided attention.  I wish your name had more syllables in it.”

 

“That’s how I feel about Keats and Joyce all the time.  It’s hard to yell at them.”

 

She just points an angry finger at him, and Q sighs, dropping the earbud back down.  He takes his coffee over to the plants, checking on them, surprised at how big some of them have gotten, and he’s just admiring the height of the snake plant when he hears R’s voice, “If you’ll take a seat, our department head will be right with you.”

 

“Department head,” he repeats when R stops at his elbow, “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

 

“It’s accurate,” R says, “Just because you’re also batshit crazy doesn’t mean they should know that right away.”

 

Q turns to him with a mouth halfway to gaping and halfway to grinning.  He’s sure he looks idiotic, and if R’s expression is anything to go by, he’s right.  “That was—I’m really proud of you right now.”

 

“That’s all it takes, insulting my boss?  I’ll remember that.”

 

“Careful,” Q warns, sipping, “Also, this is incredible.”

 

“I put vodka in it.”

 

Q laughs.  “It’s not that good,” he says, walking away, and R’s laugh follows him as he makes for the person sitting on their sofa.  He has nervous hands, fingers curling and uncurling as he looks around, taking everything in.  He wonders, suddenly, what M’s playing at if he’s allowing them down into the branch, into MI-6 at all.

 

“You must be Faruq,” he says, “I’m curious.  Were you conscious on your way here?”

 

“Nearly not, sir,” Faruq says, holding his gaze, “I was blindfolded, however.”

 

“Hands?”

 

“Bound.”

 

“Goodness, that’s an interesting way to bring someone in.  R, will all of the candidates be interviewed in the branch?”

 

“Yes, sir,” R says unsurely.

 

Q sighs.  “In the future, please schedule any and all meetings in a—coffee shop or something.”

 

“R,” Nala says despairingly.

 

“What!” he exclaims, “How was I supposed to know that?”

 

“You’re in—” Nala drops her voice into a stage whisper, and Q rolls his eyes, “—a bloody secret service building, and you think bringing a civilian in is a good idea?”

 

“To be fair,” Faruq says, “This is not my first intelligence agency.”

 

“How delightful,” Q says, “Would you like a cup of tea before we begin?”

 

“Black, if you have it.”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

R estimated 90 minutes for each interview, and so Q takes his time, dropping down onto the sofa next to him and starting a conversation with Faruq rather than pulling him into his office to ask him an endless stream of questions.  They talk about Faruq’s previous job, what his typical duties were, and then Q asks him about his hacking life, which Faruq starts to nervously admit to until Q tells him how he got to his current position.  They talk about university, what he studied for his doctorate, which he just completed last year, as well as how he found out about the posting for Q branch.  It was the only thing Q had a hand in, and he was sure to make it difficult to find.  R comes by once to take Q’s mug and fill it with herbal tea, and even Eve drops by with a stack of papers for him to sign.  She lifts a hand to her hip when he lets her know he’ll do them after his interview, and so he signs them while Faruq tells him about his sister.

 

“Sir,” Nala says at around 11:30AM, “Your next appointment is due in fifteen minutes.”

 

“So,” Q says, flashing a smile her way, “Do you have anywhere to be?”

 

“No,” Faruq says quickly.

 

“Excellent.  I’m going to have Nala set up a few modules for you to work through, and I’ll loop back around after my next appointment.  You’ll have about an hour and a half to complete two hacking assignments.  Sound fair?”

 

“Absolutely,” Faruq says, straightening.

 

“It was a pleasure, Faruq.  Thank you for your time.”

 

“You, as well, Q.  Thank you.”

 

He stops by Nala’s desk, reciprocates her excited smile when he tells her what to do, and then checks in with R on 002’s status.  He’s still going over the details of a small maneuver 002 has to make later when Arjuna’s voice drifts over to them, “Sir?”

 

“In a moment.”

 

“Your next interview is here.”

 

“Christ, this is going to take all day, isn’t it?” Q says wearily, “I’m running to the loo.”

 

When he gets back, another man, younger than Q and with sharper edges, tells him he’d rather be interviewed in his office.  Once inside, he asks most of the questions, and rather specific ones at that, until Q realizes how much he’s been talking, and he says, “I’m sorry—you do realize you’re applying for a standard position, correct?”

 

“I imagine I’ll work my way up the ranks fairly quickly,” he says, “I intend to be your second or third in the next year or so.”

 

“Oh,” Q says sadly, “I’m sorry, that won’t happen.”

 

“You haven’t seen what—”

 

“No,” Q says, “You don’t understand.  It takes a great deal of trust and ingenuity to become a second or third in Q branch, not to mention the endless training and responsibility.  I have no doubt that you carry many of the qualities desired for that position, but unless R or Nala suddenly—expire, for lack of a more polite term, they’re not going anywhere.  And if one of them should step down, there are already two in the wings.  There is possibility for advancement in other departments, which Q branch is a great stepping stone for, if that’s what you’re after, but we are very specific with our requirements in Q branch, and both R and Nala have shown no signs of slowing down anytime soon.”

 

“So this would be entry-level only,” he says.

 

“Yes, I’m afraid so.  However, like I said—”

 

“I’d like to be you one day,” he says, “But one day soon, so I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

 

“Right.  Thanks for coming in,” Q says, and walks him out.

 

It’s barely noontime when he checks on Faruq, who’s nearly completed the first task.  004 chooses that spectacular moment to arrive, walking with her quick steps across Q branch to find him perched on the desk Faruq is using.

 

“Teaching the mice how to run the maze?” she says, not bothering to look at Faruq.

 

“As pleasant as always, it seems,” Q says, “How can I be of assistance, 004?”

 

“That’s not really how you talk to your superior, is it?” Faruq says.

 

Q bites his lip as he hears Nala cough to cover a laugh.  R just stares at 004, who has shifted to glare at Faruq.

 

“I’m sorry,” Faruq says quickly, looking to Q, “I had assumed you were the—the—”

 

“You were correct,” Q says, “Technically, head of the double oh division, yes.”

 

004 blinks.  “M is—”

 

“Your boss, yes,” Q says, “But the chain of command sees that all assignments are sent to your quartermaster, who handles your mission, equipment, and training.  Thus.”

 

“Not a way to speak to your superior,” Faruq finishes, and, this time, Q allows himself to smile.

 

“Faruq,” Q says, not looking away from 004.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“As long as you complete those before one, you’re hired.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Faruq says, immediately beginning to type again.

 

“Now, 004,” Q says, jumping from the desk and walking around to lead her toward his station, “How can I help you?”

 

His day continues on like this.  Though he’s supposed to fill two slots, no one is as good as Faruq, and he refuses to settle.  When he’s finally finished, he spends some time showing Faruq around before handing him off to Nala to find a desk and equipment for, and then he’s diving in to spend the night with 002.

 

——

 

He sleeps when James is home.

 

Once, he gets back, and there’s a newly made mattress on his bed, sauce brewing on the stove, and a bottle of whiskey sitting on the balcony.  He’s been awake for two and a half days, but James is back from a local mission, and he spends an inordinate amount of time trying to piece together why he started the sauce before cleaning the knife wound along his ribs.

 

Later, when James presses him into the mattress and mouths down his front, he thinks he understands.

 

It works, for a little while.  James is given subpar missions with quick finishing times, and Q is starting to suspect that M is doing it on purpose until he voices that concern to Eve, and then the next mission is stationed in Romania with a target worthy of at least a month.  He’s okay for a week before he finally abandons Q branch in the middle of a hack and is halfway to Eve’s office when she finds him.

 

“I was coming down to get you,” she admits.

 

“Would Sam hate me if you stayed the night?”  Eve holds up a small bag, and he smiles tiredly.  “Thank you,” he says.

 

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks in the dark later, curled up next to him.

 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, “I can’t depend on him like this, but I don’t know how to sleep otherwise.  Every time I close my eyes, I—they’re right there.”  He digs his knuckles in against his temple.  “I can hear their voices.”

 

“Okay,” Eve says, and leaves him.  She returns only to deposit Keats, and then Joyce, on top of him before she retreats to the sofa, and though he knows this is better, it still takes him hours to fall asleep.

 

Eventually, when he wakes, the day is almost gone, but he forces himself not to stay up the following night, instead cooks them dinner, drinks until he’s drowsy, and lets Eve go back to Sam.  He’s in bed, one of James’s shirts on instead of his own, arms wrapped around Keats while Joyce warms his feet, when his phone buzzes, and he reaches over for it, opening the message.

 

_Goodnight, darling._

He sleeps.

 

——

 

Two weeks later, Q’s enjoying sushi with Eve when Nala says, “I’m arranging an office party.”  As Eve raises her hand, she continues, “Yes, Eve, you can come.  You’re part of the office.”

 

“I’m part of the office,” Eve says delightedly, nudging Q, who sighs loudly.

 

“I still think this is a wretched idea,” he says.

 

“It will be significantly less wretched if you let us host it at yours,” R says, “You’ve got the best space out of all of us.”

 

“How would you even know that?” Q challenges.

 

“I’ve seen the blueprints of your building,” R says casually, so Q glares at him.

 

“Nala and I will do alcohol,” Eve offers.

 

“Oh, Faruq and I will get snacks!” Keira pipes up, “Arjuna just texted me and said he’d get something for food, too.”

 

“I’ll bring cat treats,” Jackson offers, and everyone laughs.

 

Even Q manages a smile, to which Eve lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like she believes they’ve won.  “Come on,” she says, “It’ll be so fun.”

 

“When?” Q says, and Nala gives him her brightest smile.

 

“Next week,” she says, “On a Friday, so we don’t show up at work hungover.”

 

“Oh, there will be no drunk driving on my watch,” Q says, “If you can’t drive, you sleep there.”

 

“You’re such a mother hen,” Eve teases, so Q steals one of her rolls.

 

When Friday finally rolls around, Q nearly forgets that he’s hosting anything when he stumbles into his flat, takes one look at it, and groans.  There are things strewn about everywhere, some that are very much not for the eyes of anyone but R and Nala, so instead of catnapping like he’d planned, he takes a fast shower—he can’t stand being under the water longer than necessary now, and it had taken several painful panic attacks before he’d started to be okay being under the spray at all—and throws on some clothes before he starts cleaning.

 

He hides the sensitive information in his room, puts away as many cat toys as he can find, organizes his tea, actually takes the time to put his books away on the large shelf against one of his walls, and, eventually, as it’s nearing 8PM, he finds a record to put on the turntable before going to switch the kettle on.

 

Eve arrives first, with Nala behind her, and it occurs to Q that though they’ve gone out for drinks and the occasional mid-work lunch, none of Q branch has ever seen where he lives.  And so, he watches Nala observe now, gaze sweeping around the flat as she takes everything in, likely readjusting her view of him as she does.

 

“This is new,” Eve says as she indicates a gun in pieces on the island.

 

“It’s been arguing with me,” Q says before he takes the kettle off, pouring a cup before he carefully puts it back together.  He’s just opening one of his cabinets to stow it away for the time being when Eve sets down a bottle of his absolute  _favorite_  whiskey.  “You’re truly an amazing friend, Eve,” he says honestly, lifting the bottle to look at the label.

 

“Reconsider that statement when I tell you that I bought a second bottle just for you.”

 

“Eve,” he says, “That must’ve cost a fortune.”

 

“You deserve it,” she says softly, moving to his liquor cabinet to put it away.

 

“If you say,  _you’ve been through a lot_ , I’ll drink it alone.”

 

“You’ll go through worse, undoubtedly, what with your nasty habit of pissing people off,” she says, and then, without thinking, “Honestly, though, how much worse can it be after you’ve dated James Bond?”

 

Nala sets a bottle of vodka down on the island as she looks over at them.  “Oh,” Eve says, “That was—I forgot there was more than just us here.”

 

“It’s fine,” Q says, “Nala’s had her suspicions for—”

 

“Ever,” Nala says, “You essentially announced it when he waltzed in wearing your Ares III sweatshirt, though.  We’ve all known for a while.”

 

“Who won the betting pool?”

 

“Are you actually admitting it?” she asks, already taking out her phone.

 

“Yes, Nala,” he says, and she grins wickedly, typing.

 

“I did,” she says, “But I promised Arjuna I’d halve it with him since he was so close to being right.”

 

“Oh?” Q says, “And has that taken off yet?”  Nala flushes bright red, so Q smirks and sips his tea.

 

“Oh good, R’s here,” she says suddenly before putting away her phone.

 

“Okay!” R shouts as soon as he’s inside, “You guys are  _never_  going to believe what happened to me just now.”  He deposits a bag on the island and feigns wiping sweat from his brow before he says, “Three guesses.  Location: food store.  Human hint: MI-6.”

 

“Oh,” Nala says, frowning, “You ran into—hm—oh!  That bloke from accounting that’s into you.  In the chip aisle.”

 

“The worst,” Eve says, shaking her head, “Completely wrong.  M in the toy aisle, and he asked you if you would have played with this, whatever it was, when you were younger.”

 

“I think you may have us beat,” Q admits, leaning back against the island, “But I’m going with the popcorn half of the chip aisle, and a double oh.  008.”

 

“Fucking  _004_  in the toy aisle.”

 

“No!” they all exclaim at once.

 

There’s a knock on the door, and Q goes to answer it as R says, “I guess she has three daughters, and they’ve been really annoyed with her since she took the position because she was so long between jobs, and they had a lot of time together.”

 

Q checks the camera by the door before opening it to let Keira, Arjuna, and Faruq in.  “Jackson and Laia are right behind us.”

 

“Anyone else coming?” he asks Nala.

 

“I made it mandatory,” Nala admits, “Julian, Ivo, Roland, and Rashmi said they were coming together.”

 

“We really do need to hire new people, don’t we?” Q says sadly.

 

“Yes!” Nala and R both say at the same time.

 

“There are only eleven of us now,” R says, “I’d say at least three more.”

 

“Maybe four, round up to fifteen,” Nala says, “That’s a nice, solid number.”

 

“Alright,” Q says, “Start scheduling interviews on Monday.   _Not_  in the branch,” he adds.

 

“Listen, I learned my lesson,” R says, “Plus, we got Faruq out of that deal.”

 

“Being blindfolded was not fun!” Faruq says, “I thought I’d been tricked into something—terrible.”

 

“You were,” Eve says, “Q’s secretly a dictator.”

 

Q laughs as he turns toward a cabinet, taking out glasses.  “Until R mysteriously loses his allergy to cats, I’ll never be a dictator, sadly.”

 

“Hey,” R says, “Where are the little monsters?”

 

“Bedroom,” Q says, pointing to the closed door, “Don’t venture in.  It was hell trying to get Keats to stay in there.”  There’s a soft meow from behind the door that lets them know he’s still put off about being locked up.

 

It turns out to be a better night than he’d imagined.  After the rest have arrived, Nala and Eve reveal that they’ve brought board games, and it takes about four minutes before they’ve split into teams, arranged the food and drinks at a communal place in the living room, and started a tournament.

 

They play into the night, breaking after each round to chat, and it’s the first time Q’s just sat back and laughed with them, gotten the opportunity to ask questions and actually listen to their stories.  Around midnight, Julian and Roland start yawning, so Ivo ropes Rashmi into helping him collect their things, and they take their leave.  Jackson and Laia leave a few minutes after them, and then it’s just Q, Eve, R, Nala, Arjuna, Keira, and Faruq slowly nursing their drinks while they let their conversation drift where it will.

 

Nala is just shifting closer to Arjuna when there’s a noise at the door, and they all look over, frowning.  It sounds like someone clumsily unlocking the door, and then it dawns on Q.  “Excuse me,” he says, setting his glass down on the coffee table before heading over toward the door, pulling up the camera feed even as James lets his forehead thud against the door.

 

“That looks ugly,” Q says softly.

 

“It fucking  _hurts_ ,” James actually admits.

 

Q smiles lightly before undoing the door and opening it, lifting an eyebrow when James looks blearily at him.  “Half of Q branch is here,” he warns.

 

“Bother,” James mutters, “Shall I disappear?”

 

“No,” Q scoffs, “You belong here.”  He steps aside, letting James stagger in, though he remains in the dark of the front hall, leaning against the wall.  “Come on,” Q says, lifting his good arm and dropping it over his shoulders, “Injury report.”

 

James grunts as Q makes him walk forward, steering him in the direction of the bathroom.  “Dislocated shoulder,” he says slowly, “Mild concussion,” he breaks off to make a soft noise of discomfort as Q shifts him to open the bathroom door, “Gunshot.”

 

“Jesus,” Q says, “Where?”

 

“Dislocated shoulder.”

 

“That’s delightful.”

 

“Are you tied up?” James asks when Q sets him down on the toilet.

 

Q shakes his head, leaning down to press a kiss to his mess of blonde hair.  “Give us a moment,” he says before stepping back out.

 

“Everything okay?” Nala asks.

 

“Is that 007?” R asks.

 

“Yes,” he answers both of them, “I’ll just be a second.”

 

“Need any help?” Eve asks.

 

“Keep these nerds from speculating,” he says, and Eve grins terribly as he turns back toward the bathroom.

 

He shuts the door behind him and frowns at James, who looks an utter mess.  His clothes are torn, he’s covered in blood, much of it likely his own, and it seems he trusts Q enough that he’s let his guard down to show he’s in pain.  “Shall I set it first?” he asks.  When James nods, he comes over, taking his forearm in one hand and holding onto his shoulder with the other.  James wraps his good hand around his wrist, finding his pulse as he closes his eyes, and he does nothing more than exhale quickly and loudly when Q rotates his shoulder back into the socket.

 

Q helps him undress so that he can look at the bullet still in his shoulder, grumbles incoherently at him about not being a doctor, and starts patching him up.  It takes about twenty minutes to locate the bullet and the shrapnel around it, another fifteen to wash it up and stitch it, and then a final five getting James fully undressed and in the shower.  He makes him promise not to pass out before he goes to retrieve him clothes, shooing Keats back into the bedroom when he tries to escape.

 

Though he tries valiantly to provide James with a full set of clothes, he only steps into a pair of tight fitting boxer briefs before he’s edging around Q and out of the bathroom.

 

“Eve,” James greets as he makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet.

 

“James,” she says evenly, “You’re about to be scolded.”

 

“Mild concussion,” Q says, “Tea.”

 

James actually makes a noise at him, so Q pushes him out of the way with his hip, busying his hands with the kettle.  “Anyone else while I’m here?” he asks.

 

“I’d love a cup,” Arjuna says, “Wake me up for the road.”

 

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” Q says, “I’ve got plenty of blankets to make up beds.”

 

“I’m taking you up on that offer,” R says even as he stretches, “Nala?”

 

“Absolutely,” she says, “Thank you, Q.”

 

“I’ll even let you have the sofa,” R says, pinching Arjuna’s thigh with his toes.

 

“It’ll give me peace of mind,” Eve adds, “Plus, James is an excellent chef.”

 

“Why is Q branch here?” James asks as he leans back against the counter.

 

“Nala arranged an office party,” Q says softly, “The rest of them left a couple of hours ago.  I thought you weren’t due back for another day.”

 

James shrugs one shoulder, not looking at him even as he reaches out with a hand, fingers curling around the hem of Q’s shirt to tug him closer.  Just their sides are touching now, but it’s enough that Q hears the unspoken words.  “I missed you, too,” he says, though he loathes the way it sounds in his mouth.

 

“Horribly traitorous words,” James mumbles.

 

“Honestly,” Q says, letting them fall silent as he picks out a few teas.  James hums when he reaches for an herbal one, so he picks out the one he always seems to be low on, and then says, “You should sleep.”

 

“I’d rather wait for you,” James says.

 

“Put some clothes on, at least.”

 

“Yes,  _sir_ ,” James quips, and Q laughs quietly.

 

“Careful, I might enjoy that.”

 

James just hums a soft note again before he leans down and presses a lingering kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth.  He disappears into their bedroom, having the good sense to keep Keats—and now Joyce, too, apparently, from the noise—inside while Q takes as many mugs as he can carry over to the living room.

 

“Are you sure you don’t mind us staying?” Keira asks, glancing at the closed door.

 

“Truth,” Q says, “I know Nala told all of you.”

 

“That was a bloody big pot,” Arjuna says, “Cheers for that, Q.”

 

“All I ask is professionalism at MI-6.”

 

“Obviously,” Keira says, “Just wanted to make sure it was okay with him, as well.”

 

“If it wasn’t,” Eve says, “you would know.”

 

James joins them eventually, dressed in a pair of loose pants and no shirt, though he’s carrying Keats when he comes out.  Q starts to sigh at him, but R says, “I took something for it, don’t worry.”  He drops down in front of Q, leaning back against the armchair he’s sitting in, shifting until Keats is settled in his crossed legs and he can comfortably rest his head back.

 

“Word game,” Eve says, “Never have I ever.”

 

“Oh, yes!” Keira exclaims, “I used to love playing that in uni.”

 

“Good, you’re up,” Arjuna says, throwing a piece of popcorn down at her from her place on the floor, surrounded by pillows.

 

It keeps them occupied for the next hour, and Q finds himself enjoying it immensely, laughing loudly along with everyone.  He keeps a hand threaded through James’s short hair most of the time, occasionally massaging lightly at his head, smiling whenever James lets out a barely there noise in response.  When the witching hour is finally upon them, though, Eve says, “Alright, sweets, I’m exhausted.  Oh,” she adds when she looks over at Q, “That’s adorable, and if you ever repeat that, I’ll dismantle you limb by limb.”

 

“Asleep?” Q guesses, not moving.

 

“Soundly,” Eve says, “Where are the blankets?”

 

Q points vaguely toward the back of the living room, so she disappears off in that direction as he leans forward, curling a hand around James’s jaw before he reaches down to stir Keats, hushing him when he protests, stretching and nearly falling off James’s lap.  One of James’s hands snatches out to catch him, and Q drops a quick kiss against his shoulder before he gets up.

 

He helps Eve get blankets and pillows, and they make up beds for everyone, laughing when Keira just collapses back into her pile of pillows.  “We’ve got it,” Nala says, taking his armful, “Go to bed.”

 

“Are you sure?” he asks even as he starts to turn.

 

“Breakfast,” R says as he starts laying out blankets for a makeshift bed, “Oh,  _French toast_.”

 

Faruq groans, hugging a pillow close to his chest.  “I would kill for that.”

 

“French toast,” Q agrees, “And eggs.  Just wait until you’ve tried them.”  He drifts off as they all start whispering about their favorite breakfast foods.

 

Inside, James is just getting under the duvet, his pants on the floor, which Q laughs at.  “I just don’t see the appeal in sleeping naked,” he says as he looks for Joyce, closing the door when he finds her.

 

“Have you ever tried it?” James asks, and then quickly adds, “With another person?”

 

“No,” Q admits.

 

He smiles sleepily and says, “Well?”

 

“Oh, fine,” Q says before stripping out of his clothes.

 

When he pulls back the duvet and climbs in, James reaches for him almost immediately, drawing him across the bed and into the circle of his arms, holding him close.  “This is why,” he says as one of his knees nudges at Q’s, slipping in between them when Q lifts his knee, leg hooking around his.  James settles a hand against his chest, fingers spread wide, feeling for his heart as he shifts closer, pressing his chest against Q’s back.

 

Q is shocked to find that James isn’t hard, even with so much contact, and then he lets himself relax into the comfort of it, the sharp snap of fire that James usually ignites a little softer, a little more golden in the dark and the nearness of him.

 

“Okay,” Q says, “I understand.”

 

James just exhales against the back of his neck, and Q closes his eyes when he realizes he’s asleep already.

 

——

 

Q wakes in a hurry, James’s warm mouth wrapped tightly around him, and he has to utilize a great amount of willpower not to kick him in the ribs.  “ _What_ are you doing?” Q hisses, reaching down to fist his fingers through his short hair and pull him off.

 

He releases him with an obscene noise and lets Q pull at his hair as he leans back down to kiss his belly and over onto his hip, biting sharply.  “James,” Q says, raising his voice a little now as he yanks harder.

 

James lets out a growl, going as Q’s hand in his hair touches farther into pain.  “Half of my staff is currently sleeping in the next room,” Q says, leveling him with a glare that he still finds dangerous.

 

“I was being discreet,” James says, shifting until he can drop next to Q, throwing an arm over him as he settles, nose brushing Q’s jaw.  He had been absolutely and one hundred percent unsurprised that James craved physical contact, and he’s almost used to it now, having someone constantly touching him.

 

“You were being an exhibitionist,” Q says.

 

“Correct,” James presses the word into the skin just beneath his jaw, kissing him softly, “You need to have a little more fun.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Q promises before he starts to get up, edging out from beneath James, “Moira has some kind of game, and the twins are begging to do something, so we’re not having brunch.”

 

“Q,” James says as he reaches the closet, fishing out clothes.  He tosses a noise over his shoulder, so James doesn’t continue, instead watches Q tug on a shirt, his tattooed back disappearing as he does.  “Are you getting any more?” he asks.

 

“More what?”

 

“Tattoos.”

 

“Eve wants to get one, so probably.  And R’s been hounding me about going with him.”

 

“What would you get?”

 

“Your name.”

 

James laughs purely at his tone of voice, and it’s worth it for the smile Q throws at him, joy in full force.  He wonders, briefly, if that’s what this is— _joy_.  He’s never really experienced it, never allowed himself to get far enough into something to unravel that particular emotion.

 

“Q,” he says again.

 

“Yes, James?”

 

He waits until he turns before he continues, “May I preoccupy you tomorrow?”

 

“Sundays are your days,” Q says, turning back to the closet, “Whatever you want.  Within reason,” he adds because he is still talking to James Bond.  “My mom would have liked you,” he says without thinking about it first.

 

James takes it in stride.  “Is that so?” he asks.

 

Q finally releases this space between them, grabbing a pair of pants before he comes back over to the bed, sitting on James’s side.  “I think so,” he says, “You’re very abrasive.  She would have considered it a challenge.”

 

James almost, _almost_ says it— _if she was anything like you, I know I would have loved her_ —but it’s a rather startling discovery that he’s only just uncovered this morning, and he’d like to keep it to himself a little longer.  Instead, he asks, “Eggs?”

 

“I promised them, yes,” Q says, the ghost of a smile crossing his face, and James knows that distant expression, knows exactly where he’s gone.

 

“Knowing you,” he says slowly, reaching over for one of Q’s fidgeting hands, “I’m sure I know her very well.”

 

It’s every single word that Q needs to hear, and his smile is something small but dangerous, something that promises more of himself than he’s ever been willing to give, and he hides it in a kiss a full second after James recognizes its true weight.

 

Saturday passes in true productive fashion.  R, Nala, Keira, Arjuna, and Faruq stay for breakfast before heading out, Eve convinces Q to help her find a place to get a tattoo, and James disappears onto the balcony with Q’s laptop.

 

“Come on,” Eve says, shooing him out the door.

 

“I’m highly suspicious of you right now,” Q admits, allowing himself to be moved along.

 

“And why is that?”

 

“I saw him ask you to keep me busy.”

 

“Oh, _please_ ,” Eve says, heading for the stairs, “If James fucking Bond is trying to be romantic, I’m absolutely going to encourage it.  You two are the strangest couple in the entirety of MI-6, and there are some very odd things happening in that building.”

 

“Like?” he prompts.

 

“Don’t change the subject,” she snaps, “I’m shocked you haven’t killed each other yet.”

 

“That would be very unfortunate,” Q says, “I enjoy working with him.”

 

“Clearly, considering.”

 

“The two are not related,” Q says, “Honestly.  We hardly discuss work.”

 

Eve blinks over her shoulder at him.  “Really?” she says, “What do you talk about, then?  You hardly have anything in common.”

 

“Actually,” Q says, “Not true.  We have several similar interests.”

 

“Name three.”

 

“Food, television, and soccer.”

 

“Okay, expand,” Eve says, “That’s not good enough.”

 

“I dunno,” Q says, shrugging, “We’re both passionate about food.  It’s actually quite ridiculous how long it takes us to food shop.  He’s been hinting at dining in different countries, which is why I’m suspicious of you taking me out for a little distraction.”

 

“You can’t possibly watch the same television,” Eve glosses right over his concerns.

 

Q sighs at her as they reach the lobby.  He smiles and says hello to his landlord, who greets him jovially.  “Admittedly, he was not big into series before—well, before me, but I like to binge watch on the off days, so he’s been sitting along for that.  He’s particularly fond of _Game of Thrones_ and _The Walking Dead_.”

 

“Not the least bit surprising.  It always strikes me as odd that you’re not into all those superheroes.”

 

“Let’s walk,” he says when she starts to turn toward her car, “The shop’s not far, and it’s nice out.”

 

“Sure,” Eve says, smiling, “Need a little sun on that pale skin.”

 

“Hush, you.  Superheroes are just loud,” he says, “Iron Man is okay.  A lot of his ideas are really intriguing.  Batman’s far more interesting, but then it all just gets magical and superficial after that.”

 

“And space adventure isn’t?” Eve says, looking over at him.

 

“It has a certain aspect of realism to it,” he says, “Scientific realism.  Shut up.”

 

“I just watched that show, _Hannibal_ ,” she says, “You’d like that, I think.”

 

“Too triggering, actually,” Q says softly.

 

“Oh,” Eve says, “I hadn’t even—cannibals, really?  He never told me about that.”

 

“He didn’t tell me, either,” he says, “But we tried one episode, and he, uh—he actually left the room.  It was bizarre.”

 

“So, what do you do, just lounge about all day, watching TV and cooking food?”

  
“There’s not usually a lot of clothes involved,” Q admits, “We don’t get a lot of days in a row, so we make up for lost time.”  Eve just laughs at this, and their conversation continues on a similar vein until Q is directing them into his usual tattoo shop.

 

When they walk in, there’s someone at the front desk that Q doesn’t recognize, but he leads Eve over, smiling as he approaches.  “Hi,” he says, “Is Oliver in?”

 

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks without looking up.

 

“No,” Q says, “I was just curious if he was free for a quick chat.  He—”

 

“Uh huh,” she cuts him off, “Hold tight, darling.”  She gives him a patronizing smile and walks off, to which Eve sighs loudly.

 

“Honestly,” Eve says, folding her arms across her chest and turning to him, “And you keep coming back here?”

 

“Oliver is amazing,” he says confidently, “He’s done all of mine.”

 

“Are you getting one with me today?”  Q shrugs one shoulder, and Eve pouts.  “Please, Q?  I don’t want to go alone.”

 

“You’re absurd,” Q laughs, “You can kill a man, but you’re nervous about a tattoo.”

 

“Rowan!” a voice thunders from one of the offices.

 

Q realizes he hasn’t quite thought this all the way through.  “Rowan?” Eve says questioningly a heartbeat before it occurs to her, “ _Oh_.”

 

“Dude,” Oliver says as he comes out, holding out his arms, “It’s been forever.”  He’s got full sleeves, one starting to creep up toward his neck, a shaved head, and a beard that Q had decided he was far more attractive with.

 

“Hey,” Q says warmly, letting Oliver clasp his hand as he embraces him, thumping him on the back, “How’s everything?”

 

“Awesome,” Oliver says, stepping back, “Jocelyn had me right confused, trying to describe you.  Said some bloke had come in with his girlfriend wearing a fucking cardigan with this _hair_ , and then I knew it was you.  Where you been, man?  What’s going on?  Who’s getting inked today?”

 

“Eve,” Q says, introducing her, “I’m here for moral support.”

 

“For now,” Oliver and Eve say at the same time, and Oliver practically beams at her.

 

Eve ends up surprising both of them when she shows Oliver some of the designs she’s been thinking of and then opens her fingers around for the size at the side of her thigh.  “Oh, I love thigh tattoos,” Q says happily, “I wish I could.”

 

“You could,” Oliver says, “I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s totally badass.”

 

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Q says, looking back down at Eve’s design.

 

“Let me work some of that circuit board down, like a continuation piece.”  
  
“He’s never let me see the circuit board before,” Eve laments, pouting again.

 

“For shame,” Oliver says, snatching the designs out from under his gaze, “We could work a little honeycomb in there, too.”  Q looks up, considering, and Oliver whistles.  “Girlfriend, you’re definitely seeing it today.  Look at that face, he’s getting inked right along with you.”

 

“I don’t want to—”

 

“We have all day,” Eve waves him away, “James needs you to be busy for hours, he said.”

 

“Jesus,” Q mutters, “Can you at least hint at what he’s planning?”

 

“It’s an all-day affair,” Eve says, “He’s been texting me ideas, and if you hack into my phone, I’ll make Oliver put a Q on you somewhere.”

 

“I’ve honestly considered it a hundred times,” Q says, “But it’s lame, isn’t it?”

 

“Not at all!” Eve exclaims, turning to face him, “That would be such a fun idea.  It’d have to be somewhere discreet, though.  M might lose his head if he sees you’ve got a knuckle tattoo.”

 

Q laughs loudly, shaking his head.  “I would never,” he says, “I’ve also thought about getting two zeros.”

 

“Oh,” Eve sighs, smiling, “Q.  Get them on opposite sides of your body.  Q and 00.  I love it.  And then—”

 

“Don’t do it,” Q warns her.

 

“Later, you should—”

 

“Eve.”

 

“Get the number seven.”

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

“Maybe in Roman numerals.”

 

“That’s—not a bad idea.”

 

Eve just grins triumphantly at him.

 

In the end, Eve goes first, making Q hold her hand.  Two hours later, she’s finished, and she can’t stop grinning as she stares at it in the mirror.  “It’s amazing, Oliver.”  He just smiles his thanks while he cleans up his station.  “Q,” Eve says when she turns to find her pants, “I’ve been informed that there will be a guaranteed lack of clothes in your evening tomorrow.”

 

“Can we schedule something for the thigh?” Q asks Oliver, who laughs and nods.

  
“But,” Eve says, “The Q and 00.”

 

“You’re evil.”

 

“Idea,” Oliver says, rolling over to them and holding his palms together, wrists pressing inward, “On the inside of each wrist.”

 

“Oh,” Q and Eve say at the same time.

 

“How small can you reasonably make them?” Q asks, and they get to work.

 

He really thinks it’s probably a bad idea to permanently tattoo his and the double oh’s moniker on his body, but it’s something he’s been thinking about for some time now, and he feels like it’s vague enough that only someone in MI-6 would understand.  They take about three minutes each, and then Oliver is sending them on their way after they’ve exchanged money and after care instructions.  Q sets up a quick date with him for next month, and then they’re off, Q laughing when Eve frowns at her leg.

 

“Those are a bitch to heal,” Q informs her.

 

“Do they itch?”

 

“Like sunburns.”

 

Eve groans loudly, and Q laughs, knocking shoulders with her as they head down the street.

 

——

 

It’s late when he gets home.  Eve keeps him out all day, taking him to a bookstore, to dinner and a coffee shop after, and then they walk under the stars until they reach a pier, and Eve huddles close, laying her head on Q’s shoulder while they talk.  When, eventually, they make their way back to his flat, Sam has called twice, and so Eve is quick to say her goodbyes and head home.

 

Upstairs, Q is surprised to find the flat empty.  His bed has been freshly laundered and made, the pillows look suspiciously fluffy—when he tests them out, he confirms that they’re new—and there’s a note attached to Joyce’s collar, which she looks positively murderous about.  _M called._

It says nothing else, but Q frowns at it regardless.  After being kept out all day, he had been so eager for tomorrow, and now it looks as though he won’t even get to see James.  The thought occurs to him faster than he has time to analyze it, and then, there it is.  He’s known for a while that he’s been falling deeper into whatever this thing is that they’re doing, which really is a conversation in and of itself, and he just can’t stop wondering how it’s working.  Q is no fool—he knows that being able to share his work with James helps exponentially, but it’s started to become more than that, more than just agent and quartermaster, something a little more worrisome that Q isn’t quite ready to look into just yet.

 

Exhaling, he scrubs a hand through his hair, as though trying to pull the thoughts from his brain to deal with them later.  When that inevitably doesn’t work, he decides to do the unthinkable and just tuck in early, so he finds Keats, drops him onto the bed to join Joyce, and undresses, finding one of James’s shirts to tug over his head.  If he pulls the collar up to inhale the material, well, the cats pretend they don’t notice how absurd he’s becoming.

 

——

 

James gets in around four the next morning.

 

He undoes the several locks in place, toes off his muddy shoes by the door, and pads softly toward the bedroom, letting himself in.  Q is fast asleep, blankets kicked off because he forgot to leave the window open, and the room is stuffy now.  He’s naked from what James can tell, one of his shirts lying on the floor by the side of the bed.

 

Taking care to be quiet, he opens the window, pulling back the curtains to let in the moonlight before he starts undressing, stripping down until he climbs in opposite Q, shifting up onto an elbow so he can find the winding design of the black ink on his skin.  He reaches out, fingers skimming lightly along his back, following the ridges of his spine before he circles each planet, leaning down to kiss each one after.  Q sighs in his sleep, so James shifts closer, uncapping the lube he grabbed before getting in bed and letting it warm over his fingers.

 

He wakes Q with two fingers tucked deep in his ass, stretching to fill him as Q gasps awake, eyes flaring open, black and wide and a little bit terrifying in the near dark of the moon.  “James,” he says on an exhale.

 

James presses a hot kiss against the back of his ribs and bites the words into his skin, “I need to be inside you.”

 

“Fuck,” Q groans.

 

He loves sex with Q when he’s like this, still struggling up from the dredges of sleep, pliant and easy and a little bit fumbling.  He’s so warm all over, and James can never seem to touch enough of him, needs to cover him with his body and leaving searing trails of heat across his body with his fingers as he holds onto him tightly, little bruises in shapes the size of his fingers scattered across his skin.

 

Whenever he finds Q like this, however, it always turns on him when he least expects it.  Now, he’s just moving lazily, keeping them both interested as he mouths down around the back of Q’s neck and shoulders until, without much more warning than a low, wonderful sound, Q throws a shoulder back, unbalancing James as he lets himself be rolled, and then Q just _takes_.  He curls close to him, body a curve as he takes him in, begs for more, digs his short nails into James’s thighs as he leans back, trying to bring them both closer to the edge.

 

James always comes first when it’s like this, which had left him quite nearly breathless the first time it happened, Q exhaling this obscene noise when he’d felt James’s hips cant up suddenly, out of his perfect rhythm, when he’d felt the tremor run its way from blue eyes to curling toes, and even Q had known what that meant, that James was letting himself go, was trusting Q in a way he hadn’t meant to.

 

They sleep for a few hours after that, and it’s Q that wakes them this time, his wicked mouth easing James out of slumber until he pulls Q up for a kiss, and then he presses him into the mattress and drags out every loud sound that he can.

 

“M called,” Q says when they’ve finally migrated to the kitchen, and he’s tucked up with a mug of tea, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and James’s shirt while James cooks in briefs.

 

“Someone was harassing him,” James says evenly, “Standing outside his house shouting.”

 

“What?” Q says, already reaching for his laptop, “How did they find where he lived?  Were they armed?  Did you—”

 

“Q,” James says, and it’s his tone that stops Q.  He waits, watching James turn over the bacon.  “It was Grace’s mother,” James says finally.  Q doesn’t respond, merely drops his gaze and stares into his tea.  “I explained that Grace is being held on a life sentence for treason.”  Q shakes his head, pushing his chair back, pausing only when James sets a plate in front of him with an omelet on it.  “Sit down,” he says, and Q sits.  He watches James finish with the bacon, divvy up the pieces, and then sit across from him, immediately reaching over to take one of his hands and lift it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles.  “She’s safe, and she’s being cared for,” he says as his thumb swipes over the inside of Q’s wrist, and he blinks, turning over his arm and lifting his thumb.  He keeps his expression neutral as he looks at the two small zeroes there.  “What is this?” he asks.

 

Q makes a grumbling noise, but offers his other arm, holding his wrists together.  “For Queen and country,” he says, his voice dripping with disdain.

 

“And here I thought I was special,” James quips.

 

“The day I get a seven tattooed on my body is the day I leave you behind, for you’ll have turned me into an utter moron.  You’re getting very sappy this morning.  Let’s switch tactics, shall we?”

 

“Of course, darling,” James murmurs, sounding amused, “We’re a bit behind anyway.”

 

“Will you give me any hints?”

 

“Now, where is the fun in that?”

 

Q makes an obnoxious face at him that James doesn’t bother hiding his laugh at.  Q cleans up while James showers, and he intends to join him, but he’s always showering like it’s a race when they’re not together, and so he’s out before Q’s even finished with the dishes.

 

He asked him once, and his response was simple and chilling, _you were water boarded, I was drowned_ , and though it had left him silent for a second, Q finds that these seconds of blinding honesty with James are some of his favorite.  He feels like he’s peering in a little beneath the armor that he wears like a second skin, and while he’s not naïve enough to think that James would ever truly let his guard down, he’s also learning how to build his own walls, to carefully construct a version of himself that he gives to the public.

 

“Is today going to involve a plane?” Q asks as he’s dressing.  James’s response is a kiss on his bare shoulder, and Q whines loudly.  “James,” he says.

 

“Your age is showing,” is all James has to say in return, and Q grumbles under his breath about nothing in particular until they’re finally leaving the building.

 

They end up in France.

 

The flight is just over an hour, and James comes equipped.  He annoys Q with more questions than he thinks he’s ever been asked, most of it about the equipment he’s currently working on, and he lets it work, lets James talk him out of his fear and into the comfortable space between them.

 

In France, James directs them to a coffee shop that Q swears is made from the stuff of ecstasy dreams.  When he says this out loud, James looks at him strangely and asks, “And have you experienced ecstasy before?”

 

“Once,” Q admits, “In grad school.  It was a terrible idea.”

 

He has a lemon pastry with his coffee, something with a design that he snaps a picture of—and immediately gets six texts from his brothers about, and which prompts James to call him a heathen when he reveals he indulges in social media occasionally, which really just leaves Q a laughing mess at his own insult being thrown back at him—and they spend an hour drinking and people watching.

 

“Any other drugs?” James asks when they leave because he’s curious.

 

“Not really,” Q says, shrugging, “I’ve gotten high a few times, with weed, but it’s kind of boring.  I don’t particularly enjoy losing the regular function of my faculties.  You?”

 

“Oh, plenty,” James says sourly, “And not much willingly.”

 

“Have you ever come back addicted?”

 

James lets his face show that he’s surprised by the question, but he’s also relieved that Q isn’t sidestepping the issue, isn’t trying to toe around him.  “Once,” James says, “That was right around when I met Alec.”

 

“I haven’t heard this story in the rumor mill,” Q says before he touches James’s elbow and walks away.

 

James follows him into a shop that’s like walking into another country, with tapestries hanging on the walls, statues and stones covering every inch of counter space, and incense floating through the air.  “It was heroin,” James says as he watches Q pick up a piece of quartz, turning it over in his hand.

 

“That’s awful,” Q says, “And how does Alec fit in?”

 

“He was sent down to collect since medical refused to keep me any longer.  He weathered the worst of the detox.”

 

“And that was your first meeting?  Does this give you any vibes?”

 

“Vibes,” James repeats, and Q bites his mouth to stop an oncoming smile.

 

“Yes, vibes,” Q says.

 

“Unfortunately, the rest of our relationship has been less exciting,” James says.

 

“I don’t get it,” Q agrees, setting the quartz done, “Moira’s been getting into crystals, though, and her birthday is coming up.”

 

“How old will she be?”

 

“One of those years that ends in teen, I think?  This might be her first go-around.”

 

“Oh, not crystals, but reincarnation?”

 

Q scoffs and taps his temple.  “This is centuries of genius.  I am the apex.”

 

“Okay, Marinus.”

 

Q turns, blinking at him.  “You—what?”

 

“Yes,” James says, watching Q’s mouth curl at the corner, “It was an interesting book.”

 

Q hums and starts to return to his crystal hunting when James’s fingers circle his wrist, tugging lightly.  Q lets himself be moved closer, steps into James’s space and looks at him questioningly.  Though they’re almost at a height with one another, Q has often hated that looming presence that James owns.  It seems to have been withdrawn at the moment, however, for Q feels instead secure, grounded as he watches James’s blue eyes drop to his mouth, watch it move.

 

“Are you going to kiss me, or not?” Q finally asks.

 

James exhales a soft, surprised laugh at that and closes the remaining distance between them, leaving a touch that lingers when he walks away.  Q mutters an expletive when he’s left wanting more, and then he turns, and the shopkeeper is smiling at her books, so he busies himself looking for a crystal.  Eventually, though, he finally just turns despairingly to the shopkeeper, who immediately comes around to help him.

 

He manages to lose James in the shop, somehow, and after he’s selected a crystal under guidance, he moves deeper into the shop until he finds him in the midst of curling incense smoke and drums.  “Coming, dear?” he asks, letting his voice drop low.

 

James turns after a moment, and something that Q has never seen crosses his features, gone as soon as he starts moving, leaving the drums and smoke behind.  “What were you—looking at?” Q falters halfway through his question when he feels James’s fingers drop between his own, pulling their hands together.

 

“Just thinking,” James says, his tone hinting at whatever moment Q had caught him in.  They walk in an easy silence for a while, checking out different shops until James steers them in the direction of a lovely little restaurant.  He asks for a table outside, tells Q to trust him before he orders his tea, and then asks for a wine that Q is _dying_ to try.

 

“This is— _fucking hell_ ,” Q says as he tries the tea.  It’s just a vanilla bean black, but it’s so heavenly, he feels like he’s drinking gelato.

 

“I know,” James says, his smile open and easy, and Q just—can’t figure out what this is.

 

“James,” he says, setting the mug own, “A moment of your time?”  He waits until James looks up from his menu, and then he asks, “Do you plan on dying again soon?”

 

His response is instantaneous, “What would you do if I did?”

 

“Please don’t,” Q says softly.

 

“Q, if—” James stops himself, gaze flickering back down to his menu.

 

Q lets him sort out his words until their waiter arrives, and then they place their orders, Q sips at his tea, and James leans back in his chair with his wine, blue eyes fixated on him.  “May we divert from standard operating procedure?” James asks suddenly.

 

Q lifts an eyebrow.  “It seems only appropriate that we would occasionally need to actually talk about things.”

 

“How droll,” James says, and sounds like he means it.  It endears Q to him further.

 

“This,” Q says, indicating vaguely between them, “Would you like to clarify?”

 

“If death does happen to come knocking,” James says, “I will not let it linger.”

 

“I appreciate that,” Q says, “I admit, I fear for the safety of my branch in the event of being forced to attend your funeral.”

 

“I’m not sure you can hold a funeral for the same person twice,” James says.

 

“Don’t be an ass,” Q snaps at him, though it’s without any real anger, “Ground rules?”

 

“This seems a bit backward.”

 

“What, going steady after we’ve already been fucking for—however long it is?  I don’t quantify time in days.”

 

“Going steady, Jesus,” James says, “You might be older than I am.”

 

“You’re nearly ready to retire,” Q says, and James levels him with a glare that has murdered lesser men.  “You’ll have to try a little harder than that, love,” Q says, “Do you qualify it as fucking?”

 

“It’s such a coarse word,” James admits, sipping at his wine, “Have you tried this?”

 

“I’m busy,” Q says, lifting his mug, “Sleeping together?”

 

“Just—being,” James says, “My favorite moments are the in between ones.”

 

Q uses the smile reserved for cracking exceptionally hard hacks, and James’s eyes mirror it, a subtle warming of something always under lock and key.

 

“I don’t like that word,” Q warns.

 

“I’ve only ever thought it,” James says, “But it doesn’t seem quite fitting.  Not quite as encompassing as what this is.”  He adds a vague gesture to the space between them, and Q sighs happily.  When their food arrives a moment later, James asks, “Have you had your fill?”

 

“Of talking about our budding relationship?” Q says, “Yes, quite.  Have I told you where you’re off to next?  M sent in the location an hour ago.”

 

“You tease,” James accuses, “And you’ve kept it to yourself?  How rude.”

 

“Sicily,” Q says.

 

“Oh, they despise me,” James says, and Q laughs loudly, setting his mug down so he doesn’t spill his tea as James watches him fondly.

 

——

 

Four months later, when James wakes him in the dead of night and says, “ _Q_ ,” like he’s being wrung inside out, Q steps over that line he’s eternally toeing and helps him piece together the last puzzle edges, drinking tea on the balcony while the moon is high.

 

“Your flight to Mexico is tomorrow,” Q says, cutting through James’s current train of thought.

 

“I can’t protect you from the fallout of this,” James says as Q hands him his passport.

 

“I’ve arranged for you to pick up a suit at one of the local tailors.  You’ll need it.”

 

“Will you—”

 

“Come back to me,” Q says firmly, looking up at him.

 

James pauses in his pacing, letting Q memorize his face before he drops to a knee and presses his cheek against Q’s shin where his legs are folded together.  Q threads a hand through his hair, just resting against the curve of his skull, and closes his eyes, holding this moment—and the hard, angry line of James’s mouth when he kisses him—inside of him until the front door closes.

 

——

 

Q’s at his desk when the request pops up on his primary laptop, and he quickly taps into the secure line, which he’s running through a few hundred different IP addresses and tricks until M would just frown and call it nonsense, logs out of MI-6’s system, and says, “R, take first.”

 

“Sir?” R says, watching him walk away from his desk, typing quickly on his phone.

 

Q doesn’t respond as he hacks, fingers moving quickly until he’s in the hallway, and he says, “I’ve left Q branch.  Where are you?”

 

“In the thick of things,” James says, his voice dropping into an octave that Q needs to ignore for now.

 

“Are you wearing that suit?” Q asks.

 

“Haven’t you gotten into a satellite yet?” James teases.

 

“This is bloody difficult, you asshole.”

 

“Difficult?” James quips, “How delightful.  Approaching the target now.”

 

James once called wooing his women _apprehending them_ , and Q had nearly burst into tears, he was laughing so hard.

 

He listens to him _apprehend_ , still typing away even as he lets himself into his lab and locks the door behind him.  It’s still not as safe as he’d like, but he’s got a few levels of security around the Martin that give him the added security he’s looking for when he drops into the passenger seat, turning until his back thuds against the door and his legs drop into the driver’s seat.

 

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he says when he finally finds an image of James.

 

“Trust me, I’ve been dreaming of doing just that,” James says, his voice hard at the edges and every bit of volatile that Q adores.

 

“You clean up well as a skeleton,” Q says, though it’s far from what he’s actually thinking.

 

“Shall I bring it home?”

 

“Fucking hell, if you walked in wearing that, I’d be hard-pressed to let you take it off.”

 

James inhales like he’s going to respond, but then his target is making eyes at him, and James lets his attention drift to her.  It’s not until several minutes later, after he’s slipped out of the skeleton suit and climbed out the window, that Q hears from him.  “This particular piece of equipment is gorgeous, by the way.”

 

“Do try not to blow up the building, and perhaps I’ll make you another.”

 

He blows up the building.

 

In true form, he nearly collapses with it, and Q is forced to listen to his sharp, quiet breaths as he fights out of the mess.  He finds the helicopter as James is dropping onto the sofa, and he directs him quickly back through the streets and into the crowd.

 

The helicopter has less of an effect as the building on him, though Q considers that that may be due to his attention being yanked in a different direction when James activates one of his prototypes, and he’s given a full body scan, with the ring included.  He can’t get much from here, just what it looks like, but he starts searching for the image and possible connections regardless.

 

“Are you nearly done?” he asks when the screams start to drift off into the distance.

 

“Find anything on that ring?” James asks.

 

“Not yet,” Q says, “It’s—”  A message pops up on his phone from R, _M’s looking for you_.  “I assume this will make it into the news,” Q says, “Please try to make it home quickly so that I’m not fending off M all by my lonesome.”

 

“You’re a shark in still waters, Q,” James says before the line drops.

 

It’s not Mexico that M wants to discuss, fortunately, but the upcoming MI-5 merger, unfortunately.  He’s set up a meeting with Q and their head of security, Max, in an effort to combine their forces.  Q’s eyes get so narrow that M sighs and says, “I know.  Please behave.”  Nala coughs to cover her inappropriate laugh.  M adjusts, “Please _try_ to behave.”

 

“If he can play nice,” Q says.

 

“You know very well he cannot,” M says tiredly.

 

Q frowns and concedes, “Fine.  He has my undivided attention and the entire week’s capacity to be kind for one hour.”

 

“It will have to suffice,” M says before he disappears off in the direction of the plant corner, leaning in to observe the two new additions.  Q logs back into MI-6 in time for him to ask, “Dionaea muscipula?”

 

“A bit absurd, yes,” Q says, “But it adds some color.”  M nods appreciatively, lingering a few moments longer before he finally takes his leave, and R is at Q’s desk before he’s registered that he’s even moved.

 

“Come out with it,” R says, “What are you playing at?”

 

“Excuse me?” Q says, letting a note of offense slide into his tone.

 

R holds his gaze, his expression neutral, before he finally says, “Dinner later?”

 

“Are you going to continue interrogating me?” Q asks.

 

“Yes,” R says, and Q shrugs.

 

“Fine.  It better be good food.”

 

There is nothing more that he wants to do than keep this between he and James, but it’s larger than them, and Q needs _someone_.  He knows that someone should be Eve, but he’s worried about her and Sam at the moment, worried about the questions he won’t stop asking, and so he’s been trying to give her some space when it’s clear this is true espionage in the works.

 

And so, he tells R.  He tells him as much as he dares, but enough that R starts bouncing theories off of him, and it lets Q relax a little, that someone else can help with whatever this damning mission is turning into.

 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Q says when he answers James’s phone call in the absolute dead of night, “I can’t believe you stole that fucking car, you absolute _twat_.”

 

“Well then,” James says, “As wonderful as your foul mouth is—”

 

“I am going to fucking crush your Martin, I hope you realize that.  I’m going to take it apart and fucking destroy it beyond all hope of restoration.  You’re so pig-headed, you just think you can nick whatever piece of equipment tickles your fancy next, and—”

 

“Q,” James tries.

 

“Have you ever even experienced M at full anger before?  Do you understand what this looks like?”

 

“That you’re helping me disobey?”

 

“Exactly!” Q yells, finally throwing off the covers and launching himself out of bed, pacing out into the kitchen to make tea.  He’d been hacking into Max’s network to play around a bit because he couldn’t sleep, and now _this_.  “I said I would help you, not fucking run my career into the ground.”

 

“Q, it’s not—”

 

“Yes, sure, run off to Rome with a three million pound _prototype_ , James, while I’m over here, thumbs planted firmly up my ass, watching Max fucking Denbigh, whom I _loathe_ , thank you very much, the fucking _nerve_ of him to assume he has any say in what my department does just because he’s built a fucking super computer.  Jesus, he wasn’t even capable of simple maths last I saw him, and here he is, mightier than thou, with a fucking _merger_.  I found _applications_ on the printer because Nala is losing her mind about possibly being out of a job, and—”

 

“Q,” James says, letting it come out without any force.

 

“I’m sorry,” Q says instantly, “I just— _fuck_.”

 

“I know,” James says, “I wish I could be there.”

 

“No, you don’t,” Q says, inhaling to realign himself, “Okay.  What do you need?”

 

“Can you run a few names?”

 

Q swears at him a few more times, but does as asked, and then nearly bites through his tongue in an effort not to say anything, but the _car_ , and James has the nerve to apologize, so he says, “Fuck _you_ ,” and hangs up.

 

“I can’t do this,” he tells Keats, “I can’t help him die.”

 

The next time he sees him, he hates the way James’s fingers linger over his, hates that he can’t just step in close and ask him to pause for a moment, to just let him remember this second.  James’s mouth twists like he’s trying to swallow an apology, and Q stares at the ring in his hands.

 

“Will you do one more thing for me?” James asks.

 

“Of course,” Q says, not looking up, “Whatever you need.”

 

“Within reason?” James asks, and he finally lifts his gaze.  “Q,” he sighs, “I’m sorry.”

 

Q shakes his head.  “I knew this was coming.  I knew you were going to look death in the face and laugh eventually.  I’m just grateful I was able to have a moment of your time.”

 

“Switching tactics rather fast, aren’t you?” James says, and he sounds sad in a heavy, unwilling way.  Q gives him a half-smile and starts to walk past him when James’s fingers curl around his wrist, finding his pulse.  “I’m coming back for you,” he whispers.

  
“That’s what you tell all the girls,” Q says, though he stops moving when James’s nose glances off his jaw.  “Don’t say it,” he says, keeping his voice solid.

 

“Never,” James says, “You’re above that.”

 

“How corny,” Q says, letting mirth slip back into his voice as James releases his wrist.

 

They part ways.

 

He has half a mind to call Connor and thank him for showing up early every Sunday to run with him.  Instead, he focuses on getting away, getting lost, getting back to his room and making sure he can’t be found.  James knows when he walks in.  Q’s not sure how, but he sees it in the set of his shoulders when he falters a breath before he introduces Madeleine Swann.

 

He’s wearing an awful sweater because he’d been angry with James and hadn’t wanted to give him a reason to be coy, but now he wishes he was in something more comfortable, something more intimate, he realizes, as James stands next to him, this awful space between them.  Madeleine tells them about l’Americain, and the moment is over.  James steps away from the desk, Q closes his laptop, and it’s back to business.

 

Q’s not prepared for it when James stops at the threshold of the door, turns halfway, and lets Q nearly crash into him, hand circling his jaw as he tips them together, and it’s bruising in a way that reminds Q this is real.

 

“Come back,” Q says rather than asks.

 

“To you,” James confirms, and then he’s gone.

 

——

 

“Don’t do it,” Eve says as Q eyes his laptop.

 

“I can create a secure line,” Q says, but Eve’s face lets him know how desperate he’s starting to sound.  He gives up, taking his mug over to the sofa and sitting next to her, drawing his knees in close.  “What did you tell Sam you were doing?”

 

“Keeping a friend company,” she says, “Which wasn’t good enough for him, so I said that your boyfriend was being a moron, and you needed a shoulder.”

 

“I don’t need a bloody shoulder,” Q mutters, “And he’s not my—boyfriend, _god_ , that word is awful.”

 

“Aidan was your boyfriend,” Eve reminds.

 

“And we saw how well that went.”

 

“So he’s your lover?”

 

“I don’t know, it’s—it’s complicated, Eve.”

 

“It’s not,” she sighs, leaning into him, “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”

 

“I despise that word,” Q says, “But yes.”

 

“It’s not a terrible thing.”

 

“Love is for children.”

 

“Okay, Natasha Romanoff,” Eve says, straightening, “What’s the problem with loving James Bond?”

 

“He doesn’t—he wouldn’t—it’s foolish.”

 

“Q, darling,” Eve says, frowning at him, “Don’t you know?”

 

“I don’t want to know,” Q says, “It’s going to end someday.  He’s probably on his way into Madeleine Swann’s pussy as we speak.”

 

“Goodness, jealousy is an absolutely wretched color on you,” Eve says.

 

Q throws himself upright, pacing away from the sofa.  He shakes his head before he turns and says, “It’s not jealousy.  I’m being realistic.”

 

“Sweets,” Eve says, pressing her hands against her knees and taking a breath.  “Don’t you know?” she echoes, “Isn’t it obvious?”

 

“What?  What is so bloody obvious?”

 

Q nearly throws his mug, but there’s tea in it, so he sips at it instead, trying to do so angrily and almost spilling it down his front.

 

“He would do anything for you.  Alec once referred to Vesper as the only one.  I daresay you’ve given her a run for her money.”

 

“No,” Q says, shaking his head quickly, “Vesper was—she was his everything.  She made him stop.”

 

“And if she hadn’t died, you and I both know that he would have returned to this life eventually.  It’s in his blood.  It’s what he breathes.  He doesn’t _want_ to stop.  Occasionally, I think he fancies the break that death gives, but it’s never something that lasts.  He keeps coming back, and now he’s coming back to you.”

 

“Eve, don’t be—”

 

“I’m not being ridiculous,” Eve says, “I’m being realistic.  You’re not his everything—which is a tasteless term, by the way—and that’s why it works.  You let him _be_.”

 

Q exhales loudly.  Eve smirks.

 

“I hate these conversations,” he says.

 

“We all do, love.”

 

——

 

This is bad form, James knows, but when Madeleine asks him what they’re to do now, he closes his eyes, head dropping back against the train as he thinks of Sunday mornings, of Q’s warm, solid body against his, of his breaths fanning out along James’s collarbone, stirring an ancient kind of _something_ deep inside of him, of the indent he always has in his side from Q using him as a book prop, of the quiet, lulling quality of their voices, of their tangled legs and volatile mouths and the noise Q makes when James holds him close.

 

“James,” Madeleine prompts, her fingers finding his.

 

He lets her twine their hands together, but he doesn’t open his eyes, instead tries to picture what Q would say in this situation.  _If you think we’re about to fuck in a moving train, I’m going to hit you with the nearest sharp object I can find._

James laughs without meaning to and lifts his head, opening his eyes.  “Drink, probably,” he says.

 

Madeleine looks a little crestfallen, and he wonders if he should tell her, but really, it’s none of her business whom is invading his every waking thought.

 

Franz catches on quicker than she does.  When he rambles on about taking James’s memories, of erasing all recognition from the faces around him, when he turns to Madeleine and talks about her face disappearing, James tries desperately to push away all thoughts of Q, tries to shove them away deep so that they’re impenetrable.

 

“Oh,” Franz says, and James bites back a swear.  He’s standing close, watching his face, and his smile is awful.  “It’s not her, is it?” he says, reaching out a hand to press a finger against James’s temple.  “Who is it that you’re so terrified to forget?”

 

James swallows down his grey eyes, his fingers curled around a tea mug, and the shape of his mouth around James’s name.

 

“Dr. Swann,” Franz says delightedly, floating back over to her, “Do tell.”

  
“I don’t know,” Madeleine says, staring at James strangely, “I don’t—” He hears her piece it together, and Franz’s smile grows impossibly wider.

 

“You do know,” Franz says, “This is wonderful.  Oh, James, _brother_ , I will endeavor to find your love and smother her in front of you.”

 

“Him,” Madeleine says softly.

 

Franz’s eyes are circles of wonder and joy at this.  “Even better,” he says before the needle starts spinning.

 

He recognizes Madeleine when she comes over to him.  He sees her face, and he knows her, and he searches desperately for Q’s face, exhales relief when he finds it.  It’s what carries him through, with bullets raining down on him and fire lapping at his heels.  He can’t quite force away the grin at yet another exploding building, and then they’re running.

 

James yearns to step outside and pull him close later, when he’s just on the other side of the door, back pressed against the outside of the building while he sits, typing quickly.  Madeleine stands apart from him, and M glances between them once without questioning their distance.  He tries to find him when they’re loading into the cars, after he’s let Madeleine go, but Q is distracted, pulled into his world of numbers and incomprehensible codes, and so he nearly dies without ever letting him know.

 

He recovers Madeleine from the collapsing ruins of his old home, stares down the barrel of his gun at Franz in disgust, and then looks over at Madeleine first, offering her a sad, apologetic smile that she sighs at, and then at M, every last shred of hope gone out of his sunken shoulders.

 

“Sir, you can’t—” a voice calls into the night, and then James sees him, darting out from under an arm trying to hold him back, stepping out into the light, laptop clutched tightly to his chest as he finds his blue eyes with grey ones.

 

James releases the mag, the bullet in the chamber, and then tosses the gun toward the edge of the bridge, not turning to watch it arc gracelessly toward the water.  M starts walking as soon as he does, uttering a word of thanks as he passes by him, and then Eve’s stepping up behind Q and prying his laptop from his white knuckled hands.

 

“Q,” she says gently, urging him forward.

 

He remains rooted, forcing James to close the gap, to give himself completely, to surrender.  “I don’t care,” he says when Q is within earshot, “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you hate the word.”

 

“James,” Q warns.

 

“You are above that, and beyond that, but it is all I have left.”

 

“There’s no going back,” Q says, pulling in his bottom lip to bite at it, “Please don’t.  Not now, not here, not ever.”

 

James finally reaches him, steps into his space, crowding him as he reaches a hand up to curl around his jaw, holding him there.  “I will follow you into hell if that’s what it takes,” James says, and Q breaks, his mouth unfolding in a brilliant smile.

 

“That’s all I ask,” he says, and James laughs, muffling it against Q’s mouth as he kisses him, bright and warm and all the unspoken words between them that they’ll never speak aloud.

 

——

 

“Technically,” James says, and Q groans loudly, throwing his book down against James’s stomach, who smiles, reaching a hand over to fist through Q’s hair, tugging lightly, “I didn’t blow it up.”

  
“The entire complex collapsed,” Q says, “You blew it up.”

 

“It’s not my fault it was flammable.”

 

Q dissolves into a fit of laughter, falling into James’s side as James wraps around him, holding him close.  “You have to leave soon,” Q says after a while of silence.

 

“There’s always time to tear you apart,” James murmurs, biting Q’s shoulder.

 

He almost misses his flight because he can’t make himself leave the unyielding warmth that is Q, naked skin pressed together as James drags unholy noises out of Q only to be tipped onto his back and utterly destroyed.  He’s actually feeling a little boneless when he drops into his seat, and he lets himself drift off into a half-sleep with images of Q’s wicked smile keeping him company.

 

A time zone away, he slides in an earbud and says, “Darling.”

 

“Do be professional, James,” Q snips, the sound of his fingers against the keys a comforting lullaby.  “We have _new people_ here today,” he continues.

 

“Oh, the horror,” James says, “Don’t let the Muggles get you down, Q.”

 

Q emits a loud, surprised laugh, and James can picture him hurriedly reaching up to adjust his glasses as the new people look over at him curiously.  “God, now they’re staring,” he groans.

 

“I will tear them limb from limb.”

 

“Have you ever?”

 

“Once,” James says, “It was unpleasant.”

 

Q hums.  “I see you’ve found your hotel,” he remarks as James starts stripping, heading for the shower, “I’ve sent some intel to your tablet.  Please read it thoroughly.”

 

“Could I convince you to do that for me?”

 

“Heathen,” Q accuses, “Thank you, R.”

 

“Tea?” James guesses.

 

“Herbal,” Q says, “He said I was too wound up earlier, which is preposterous, really.”

 

“You were _smiling_ ,” R’s voice floats over, and James lifts an eyebrow before he adds, “Maniacally.”

 

“That may be my fault,” James says, turning on the water.

 

“It is absolutely your fault,” Q says, and R makes a mournful sound.

 

“I resent both of you for that image,” he says, his voice growing distant as he walks away.

 

“Is he still going on about walking in on us?” James asks.

 

Q relays his question.  His tone is positively _vibrant_ when he responds, “The newbies look like fishes.  I’m officially requesting a plant.  Something tall.  Oh, _Nala_.”

 

“For Queen and country,” she says, her voice floating by.

 

“What is it?” James asks as he steps under the hot spray.

 

“A cactus,” Q says fondly, “It’s beautiful.”

 

“There’s a new David Mitchell book out,” James says, closing his eyes for the first time in a long time while in water, just letting it wash over him.

 

Q’s voice warms him to his core, “I saw.  _James_.”

 

“What do they speak in this god awful country?”

 

“I would much rather read it in English,” Q says, “Though I doubt you’ll find a bookstore that far east in Russia that carries it.  Don’t worry, I’m popping out for food and words with Eve later.  A plant, James.”

 

“You have my word, Q.”

 

Q laughs, a hollow thing, and James grins.  “What good is your word?”

 

“I’ll go there.”

 

“Oh, hush,” Q says quickly, “That’s unnecessary.”

 

“Q,” M’s voice interrupts, “Is this really a proper use of your time?”

 

“Sir,” Q says easily, “I’ve currently got my hands in two different security systems for our American friends at their request, I’m monitoring 005’s current position, and the newest minions are doing their best to not create a fire.  Conversation has the same effect as music.”

 

“If there is a fire, I will hold you responsible,” M says.

 

“I would hope so,” Q says, “Thank you, sir.”

 

“007, I expect the same level of efficiency from you.”

 

“Absolutely, sir,” James says, and he waits for the telltale click of M leaving their line before he says, “Can I whisper dirty things in your ear?”

 

“You can try.  They really are trying to start a fire.  I may have—finished your Christmas present early.”

 

“ _Q_.”

 

“Yes, I know, bask in my glory.  It’s overwhelmingly bright this close to the sun, you might need sunglasses.”

 

James finishes up his shower, steps out, and says, “I wish you were here.”

 

“Oh, don’t do that,” Q says, “I wasn’t ready for it.”

 

“Are you smiling?”

 

“Go play in traffic.”

 

“You’re abysmal,” James says, and Q’s happiness is vast enough that James feels as though he’s there beside him in bed, hiding his smile against James’s ribs.  “Q,” James says softly.

 

“Hell is a long way away,” Q says, “What will you do when you retire?”

 

“Must you continue to bring that up?”

 

“It’s only a handful of years away.”

 

James can hear the uncertainty he’s trying to mask in his voice.  “With you, hell sounds like paradise.  Food, books, and cats, I think.  Oh, how do you feel about dogs?”

 

“You had one once, right?  When you were a boy?”

 

“Is that really how you just phrased it?”

 

“That’s how _you_ phrased it,” Q mutters, “What kind?”

 

“Something big.”

 

“Only if it’s tried and tested with cats.”

 

“With personality disorders,” James says, referencing Joyce, which Q makes a disgruntled noise about.

 

“She has the best grumpy face,” Q says, “Leave her alone.”

 

“Q,” James says.

 

“Oh fine,” Q sighs, “Go ahead.  Take the plunge.”

 

“I miss you terribly.”

 

He can almost picture Q’s absurd face before he says, “My sleep cycles are an absolute mess when you’re away.”

 

“To hell, then,” James says, slipping under the duvet.

 

“Come back to me,” Q says.

 

James drifts off to Q’s voice in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good grief, that took forever to finish. I do apologize for the delay in getting this up. I was trying to rush it, and then I ended up deleting an entire idea and had to go back and fix things up before it finally started coming together. But, it's here, and I'm really happy with the way it turned out. I'm not sure if this is my last foray into the land of 00q, so keep an eye out in the future. Don't forget to leave your thoughts!
> 
> Sequel: [you're a holy fool all colored blue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11173593).


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